


and the nettles were quiet

by CreamofTomatoSoup



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: (minor) Big Sister Cindy Aurum, Anxiety Attacks, Bad Touch Chancellor Ardyn Izunia, Big Sister Aranea Highwind, Fairy Tale Retellings, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, MT Prompto Argentum, Mom Friend Ignis Scientia, Mute Prompto Argentum (sort of), Self-Harm, descriptions of surgery probably happen at some point, is that a thing?, mute character, rehashing of six swans fairy tale, so do descriptions of MT facilities
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-05-14 08:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 111,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14765921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreamofTomatoSoup/pseuds/CreamofTomatoSoup
Summary: “A dress for your dear Aranea,” the man says.  “One year from today, woven from old barbed wire, without speaking.  Throw it over her on the last day.”“And she'll be human again,”  N H-01987 0006-0204 says.The man smiles.---A six swans AU, sort of.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!! This is a kind of mash up of one of my favorite fairy tales. There's about a bajillion versions (The Six Swans, The Twelve Brothers, The Seven Ravens etc etc etc) but the story sort of trickles down to the lengths someone will go to help a sibling. 
> 
> No understanding of the story is needed, though.

“Okay, here's an easy one,” Aranea says. She's pointing to a heavy sheet of metal, green with white lettering on it, held up by thick poles, a street sign. “Read that.”

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks up at the street sign. It is easy. It starts with _hammer,_ which he knows from helping the workers do repair work on the pods. It ends with _head,_ which he knows from weapons training. There are a few numbers and letters beneath that that he recognizes individually, but together have no obvious meaning.

Aranea is watching him expectantly. N H-01987 0006-0204's throat tightens. He's taking too long.

“Hammer head,” he says. “Fifteen my.”

Aranea looks at him. She looks at the sign. “Pretty close,” she says, which N H-01987 0006-0204 has learned means _incorrect._ His chest tightens, but she only says “The 'mi' stands for miles. Do you remember miles?”

“A unit of distance,” N H-01987 0006-0204 says quickly.

“There you go,” Aranea says, which N H-01987 0006-0204 tentatively thinks is a form of praise. She hits his shoulder, a gentle hit that doesn't hurt, despite the fact that she could crack his shoulder blade if she wanted too. N H-01987 0006-0204 has learned that this is also a form of praise.

He feels warm.

\----

The man is odd.

He's smiling. His skin seems... slimy, like his clothes and his skin and red-brown hair are covered in a thin sheen of oil. The sunlight doesn't act right around him. It looks like he was cut out of the world and not put back quite right, like the edited pictures on Aranea's phone. Photoshopped.

“Dearest,” he says, looking at Aranea.

Dearest isn't one of Aranea's names, he thinks, but- there are so many things he doesn't know. N H-01987 0006-0204 isn't sure. He feels woozy, his heart heavy and the crown of his head floating above his shoulders. It's from being outside- he doesn't have clearance yet. He doesn't have the right modifications, the armor.

That isn't right, he thinks. His head was solid a minute ago. He was still outside then.

Aranea's hand is on his shoulder. It feels like his body is connected to the point, like an anchor, like her hand is keeping him from floating away. He feels dizzy. He hopes she keeps her hand there.

“What do you want,” she says. She says it like a statement. Her voice is flat and hard.

“So _cold,”_ the man says, shrugging his shoulders, eyes crinkled in apparent sorrow. The smile doesn't leave. He's using sad eyes but an amused smile. N H-01987 0006-0204 can't parse what the man is feeling. “After all the charity and good feeling I've shown you! So _ungrateful.”_

Aranea's knuckles are white. She doesn't move.

“I've come to see you, my dear,” the man continues, waving a hand. “You've come so far. Well beyond Besthida's expectations.”

Aranea's face goes blanker still. This close, N H-01987 0006-0204 can see her neck out of the corner of his eye, how the muscles grow steadily taut.

“It's unfortunate,” the man continues, and he shakes his head, sighing through his nose. “You've stumbled too close to my nest.”

The hairs on Aranea's neck are rising. N H-01987 0006-0204 sees them out of the corner of his eye, thin almost to the point of invisibility, and the pebbled goosebumps along her skin. Her arm tenses. The man raises his hand.

Aranea shoves him. N H-01987 0006-0204 hits the ground, gravel biting into his back.

And Aranea-

Aranea-

She's curled in on herself. Her back is bubbling and smoking. Something thick and black and familiar is dribbling down her arms.

The man smiles.

\---

“Aranea!”

Her skin is dissolving beneath his hands. She's bucking and twisting, impossible to hold on to, and he wants to help, he wants to help, how does he help-

“You don't want to do that,” the man says. He sounds cheerful.

N H-01987 0006-0204 does want to help Aranea- wants to put his hand on her shoulder, wrap his hand around hers, do the things that she does to help him. He's not sure what the man is talking about. Maybe the man is confused. Maybe N H-01987 0006-0204 is confused.

Aranea's writhing. Her limbs are completely black now, stretched in odd ways. Her arms are lengthening, growing thinner, and something soft is starting to grow from the back of her arms. His fingers catch at them, and he _feels_ her arm change beneath his fingers.

He lets go, scared to hurt her.

Aranea screams. It is not a human sound.

He's backing away, away, and Aranea is spreading the long black limbs that are sprouting something, prickling. Her spine flexes once, twice, and then she beats the air with her limbs, close enough for him to see the-

the feathers-

the things birds have, on their body, the thin soft things that were sometimes on the ground.

She beats the air again, howls, turns a long snaking neck towards him. Her face is long, beaky, no longer recognizable. Her hair is gone.

She coughs, guttural and too deep for a human, and black blood spills into the dust.

“The sun's still out, deary,” the man says.

N H-01987 0006-0204 can't turn away from Aranea to look at him. Aranea wavers, body still shedding smoke and blood, feathers starting to stand on end. The man tilts his head.

Aranea bellows and her wings beat the air again, louder this time, stronger, and suddenly the dust is whipping up in a blinding circle-

Aranea is gone.

\---

“You love her.”

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks up. His eyes are burning and crusted, at the corners.

The man is smiling his oily smile.

\---

“One year without speaking. No shaking or nodding your head, no writing things down. Not a peep.” The man flicks his finger at _peep,_ playful. “And you must finish something for me by then.”

N H-01987 0006-0204 says, “Finish what?”

“Hmm.” the man turns to the side, his eyes sliding over the desert landscape. They fall on N H-01987 0006-0204 again. N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes he can't meet the man's eyes.

“How about a dress?”

“Dress,” N H-01987 0006-0204 repeats dully. Aranea is not there to explain it to him. His throat feels sore and heavy, even though he hasn't been yelling.

“A dress.” the man says, and there's something smooth and dangerous in his voice. “A little too easy. How about a dress woven from this?”

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks up. The man is holding a piece of the barbed wire in his hand, he tugs, and the line of it falls from the fence, rusty and glimmering in the sun.

“A dress for your dear Aranea,” the man says. “One year from today, woven from old barbed wire, without speaking. Throw it over her on the last day.”

“And she'll be human again,” N H-01987 0006-0204 says.

The man smiles.

\---

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn't know what a dress is.

This is the first problem, one that seems almost entirely insurmountable. Aranea is not there to explain it to him. The facility isn't there, and even if it was, he could not ask. The data is not available in his files, besides as a descriptor in _dress code._ The man used it like a noun, not an adjective, so N H-01987 0006-0204 deduces that dress code is unrelated.

That leaves one other option, he realizes, a research device like Aranea's phone.

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn't know how the phone works, exactly- it seems to store a vast amount of knowledge, or communicates to an outside device that stores a vast amount of knowledge.

He can try and find Aranea, but he doesn't know what happened to the phone when she transformed. It could have survived the change, but it might not have, and the desert is vast and full of hiding places. He calculates that the resources spent to find her would outweigh the chance of obtaining a phone.

His chest feels odd and tight. Finding Aranea would be wasting resources he doesn't have, but he's reluctant to turn from that plan. His chest hurts.

He must ensure success. In order to ensure success, he must find a different phone. Reluctantly he pries his thoughts from finding Aranea and turns to other plans.

He should take one from a human.

\---

Hammerhead is two buildings, several refueling stations, and a thousand small things that N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn't understand. The cars he recognizes, from seeing roads from a distance and a lifetime growing up surrounded by tanks and machinery. They're strange and sleek without the heavy armor he's so used to seeing, and the people, the brightly lit room with windows and rations stacked in dizzying variety, those are.. a lot. Almost too much.

When N H-01987 0006-0204 adjusts his vision, magnifies the bright room and adjusts for window glare, he can see a row of boxes labeled Pre-Paid Celluar Phone. Inside the plastic of each one is a boxy shape, not quite the perfect rectangle that Aranea had. That's fine. He can figure out how it works. If nothing else, he's good at that. Machines have always made sense. People were what was strange.

Aranea always made him stay behind when they needed something from people, but she's more person than MT, and N H-01987 0006-0204 is still getting used to being outside without vomiting.

He can't fake being a person, not like her. So he'll just.. find a phone, and take it.

Aranea's phone had a passcode, but breaking past one would be easy enough, just a matter of plugging into it and finding the lock. The jack just behind his ear was meant for a communicative device anyway, and N H-01987 0006-0204 is sure he can alter a phone to fit.

He waits for night.

\---

He's used to daemons. They don't know what to make of him. After the sun falls and the sky turns dark, they come creeping out of the corners of the world. As he waits for the lights to go out in the bright room, for the glare of Hammerhead to recede in sleep, they come close around him, snuffling, quiet.

Maybe they smell their blood in his veins. Maybe they recognize him, even without the armor, as a creature infected with scourge, caught in the halfway stage between animal and daemon. They leave him be.

They have no way of knowing his transformation is pinned in place by machinery. They have no way of knowing that the only creatures like him are the Empire's soldiers, and even those would kill him if they found him. They have no way of knowing that, with his armor gone and Aranea transformed, he knows no one else in the world like him.

They can't know that his chest feels hollow, painful, and their quiet attention touches something starving in him.

They leave eventually. His chest hurts.

\---

The light goes out. N H-01987 0006-0204 waits an hour, counted out on his internal clock, before moving.

It's easy to be quiet without his armor, easy to creep down the hill softly, like an animal. Slipping past the barrier that keeps daemons at bay hurts like it always does, electric prickles in his blood, but it fades after a minute.

He creeps to the bright room, finds the lock at the door. He doesn't know how to- unlock things without keys, the way Aranea can do with slim metal sticks and sometimes with bobby pins, but he knows how doors function, knows where they're structurally weak.

He kicks the lock out. He's never been as strong as he should be, but it only takes two kicks, done in quick succession.

Something starts beeping, too quiet to serve as an alarm. A timer?

He slips in. The tile is familiar underfoot, like facility floors, like cold training rooms. He grabs one of the boxes with a phone. Hesitates by the shelves of rations.

A sound blares, loud enough for him to jump, for him to swallow down the reflexive noise in his throat. There's shuffling, beneath the sound, and cursing.

He flees.

\---

He doesn't stop until his lungs burn and his head feels dizzy from forcing his breath too quiet to be heard. He's well out of sight of Hammerhead, the only sign of it a distant blue glow.

He stops. Pants. The night air is cold and dry in his lungs.

There's a line of barbed wire to his right, a tangled old fence surrounding a shack. It's not a defensible position, and not one well hidden, but.. he needs the barbed wire.

He holes up in the rocks nearby, finds a hollow between boulders. Aranea usually carried their supplies, citing that he'd just faint if he had to carry anything. Now he only has his clothes, his shoes, the plastic box clutched in his hand.

He wedges himself between the boulders, curls in on himself. Tries to fight off the cold.

His hands are shaking too much to open the box, leftover fear and adrenaline and hunger making his muscles jump and twitch, not under his full control.

He worms closer to the ground between the boulders, closer to the meager protection from the wind they provide. He breathes. Tries to sleep.

He sees the oily man's smirk behind his closed eyes.

\---

He doesn't get much sleep.

\---

The next morning, N H-01987 0006-0204 chews fitfully on a handful of dry grass. Eating and swallowing is still new to him, but Aranea was insistent he learn, because there are no rations out here that connect to sustenance ports. He still has to go slow, eat little bits at a time, chewing and swallowing unfamiliar and clumsy, but he can do without help now.

Early on in the trip Aranea had to chew his food for him. Now he is capable. Functional.

He swallows a wet mess of grass that scratches his throat and pries open the plastic box. The phone inside is smooth plastic and metal on both sides, with only a tiny screen when he pulls it out.

It's not like Aranea's phone. It takes him a moment to realize it unfolds, and the inner sides have a bigger screen and a small keyboard, with buttons assigned to three or more letters each. He presses the buttons systematically until he finds the one that turns it on. It blinks to life.

There's a dozen or more options that he doesn't understand. He hopes when he connects it to his ear port that it will make more sense.

The box has a cable inside. He finds the end that connects to the phone, and then considers the other end. He should be able to strip the casing, and then it's just a matter of figuring how to connect the wires to his communications port.

He bites the end off. It takes some work. Then he nibbles around the casing, the wire poking far enough into his mouth to touch the inside of his cheek, and cuts just enough into the plastic to slide the casing off.

The wires glint at him in the sun. There are three of them. He turns them this way and that, considers. There are five connective parts in his ear port, and with nothing to guide the wires, that leaves a lot of guesswork.

It takes him a couple different tries, static loud in his head. He has to keep at least one hand touching the wires to his ear port, the other curled into his pants leg.

Eventually static bursts into lines of code. He's found the right combination.

The coding in his head picks apart the phone. There is no lock, which seems like an oversight, but N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn't question it. There is an outflow, a connection to an outside source. Like the research part of Aranea's phone.

He changes the perimeters of the coding in his head. It finds the framing for the outflow, labeled _internet,_ and it has an option to search, with a place to type in.

Search what? Aranea's phone had a map, sometimes. Could he search for Aranea?

He tries _Aranea._ The results are all information he didn't know, but all unrelated.

He tries _MT._ The results are confusing- there seems to be a lot of information, but arranged in paragraph form, warnings and sightings and the words _coming closer_ and _breach of treaty_ and a lot more information, most of it nonsensical or at least inaccurate. None of it shows Aranea.

He tries _human behaving MT._ None of the results indicate anything useful.

He tries other things; physical descriptions, mostly. He doesn't know Aranea's designation. She shut him down whenever he asked about it. He finds that the internet has an option to search for images rather than words, but they're slow to upload into his head, lines of code converting to color displayed across the back of his eyelids.

None of it is helpful.

Eventually he looks up _dress_. The first word results ask if he wishes to _go_ _shopping_ , and show a dozen outward links to where he can _buy_ _dresses_ , but don't tell him what one is. He looks up definition of dress, which provides him with three definitions. Two of them are nouns describing a type of clothing, which he wavers and eventually decides this must be what he's looking for.

The image search shows bright and colorful cloth things. A dress seems to be a shirt that extends down to the thigh or lower, sometimes with complicated sleeves, sometimes tight around the waist and flaring downwards. Sometimes they have multiple layers, sometimes they have separate parts woven together.

They are beautiful and bright, like the birds or the sunset, and N H-01987 0006-0204 likes looking at them. They are pleasing, somehow. Bright and cheerful.

None of them are made with wire.

_\---_

Eventually he searches _how_ _to_ _make_ _a dress_. This leads to searching _how_ _to_ _make_ _cloth_ and then _weaving_ and then _knitting_. There are clear instructions, with pictures. They all work with cloth, and _weaving_ _with_ _wire_ yields no results.

There is something else though, a thing called a _wire_ _dress_ _form_. It seems to exist to hold the dress the right shape while it is being made. N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn't know if it counts, exactly, but he can make it as a base and just... weave more wire into it, until it's solid.

Yes. This will work.

\---

He doesn't know if putting words into the search counts as talking. The man said not to write anything down, but did it count if he was typing it out in his head?

After looking up dresses, he avoids doing it if he can. The man didn't give clear instructions. He can't take risks.

\---

The wire stabs at his fingers. It is hard to manipulate, not only because it requires force, but because it is rusted and pointed at regular intervals.

He feels dizzy. He chews more grass, thinks at some point that he's going to have to get food.

His fingers are bloody. His blood is more red than black at this point.

\---

He stays in the shade of the shack. It was frightening, at first, because it is a structure built for people. Not the open wild, for animals and daemons, and not cold metal halls, for things like him. It is specifically a human place.

But the sun is beating down overhead, and it still hurts sometimes, makes his skin red and cracked, makes him overheated, dizzy, thirsty. Sometimes spots appear at the edges of his vision. And the shelter under the roof is dark, not so hot. Sometimes a breeze even makes it pleasantly cool.

He chews the damp roots of wild flowers, the tiny bulbs at the end of the yellow dandelions. It's not enough. He needs water.

\---

It's been two days since Hammerhead. They'll still be on the lookout for him. He's so thirsty though, dry and dizzy. He no longer produces enough body heat, and he finds himself shivering even in the dull heat of afternoon.

The cuts on his fingers from the barbed wire won't clot anymore. He wraps the edges of his sleeves around them, tamps down. They ooze red and rotten smelling tar.

The wooden floor has loose parts, boards that no longer fit quite right. He puts the phone and wire in the box and puts it under one, lets the board fall back into place. Drags a rickety shelf over the board.

He creeps back to Hammerhead. Waits for nightfall.

\---

The second time he breaks down the door, the alarm starts immediately. He rushes in, his vision spotting from moving too fast, and grab- rations, the clear plastic water containers.

The blood on his fingers makes his hands slippery; he drops a bottle, goes scrambling after it.

“'Ey!”

He freezes up. A bright light plays over him and he thinks, awfully, that they've found him and now they're going to cut him to pieces.

“You're fucking dead!” a woman's voice bellows.

He's malfunctioning, crouched, shaking uncontrollably. He can't move.

He can't move, and they're going to cut him open and apart and root through him to find the malfunctioning parts, to learn where he was broken, why he went wrong. They're going to carve him open and they're not going to stop.

“You're-” the voice trails off, and then when it speaks again it's at a lower volume, closer to speaking. “You're bleedin' a lot.”

His fingers are still wet. His shirt sleeves are stained brown and orange, partly from rust, partly from blood. He's ruined their rations and tainted their water, and they're going to kill him. A whine is crawling up his throat, pure terror, and it's taking everything he has in him to keep it at bay.

“Hey,” the voice says again.

It's softer. Gentle. He doesn't understand.

Something touches his shoulder. He jerks, instinctive, and slips on his own blood. His chin hits the floor and he cries with mouth stubbornly shut, a muffled sound in his throat.

“Whoa, hey,” the voice says again. He can see, in the shadow from the light, a person crouched down close to him, close enough to kill him, to crack belts and fists across his back and the tender parts of his ribs, _for stepping wrong in training, for being out of place, for taking extra sustenance packets, for malfunctioning-_

He shies away, terrified. The person is speaking softly, gently, like they're speaking to a wounded animal, and he doesn't, doesn't- understand-

His vision is swimming. His head is full of static. His body is weak from hunger and thirst and terror.

He blacks out.

\---

He's lying on the softest thing he's ever felt. It feels like how clouds look, like the giant fluffy birds Aranea has shown him on her phone. It feels like soft grass, but less scratchy, and warm.

There's something over him. A blanket. He's warm. He warmer than he's been in days.

He blinks. It is warm, and dark, but not night time dark. More like cavern dark, sheltered from the glare of the sun. There's a ceiling overhead, and a light nearby, warm and yellow. Something is making a scratching sound.

He doesn't know where he is.

Terror jerks him upright, and his vision swims immediately. There's an exclamation nearby, a human sound, and instantly he presses himself away from it, into the softness and the wall behind it, blanket tangling in his legs.

“Woah, hey!” it's the same voice as before. “Hey, it's okay, it's alright-”

The words don't make sense. He's panting, staring.

The human is a woman, with curly blonde hair and a bright yellow jacket. Her stomach is bare, like how Aranea sometimes dressed depending on what pieces of armor she put on that day. She's wearing a red hat with an edge that sticks out- _baseball_ _cap_ , Aranea taught him this.

Her hands are out, placatingly. They're empty, which means she can only hurt him if she moves fast.

“It's alright,” she says again. “It's okay, darlin'.”

He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand. He stares, doesn't move. This seems to appease the person.

“That's better,” she says. “Breathe, alright? Ya ain't in trouble. Alright?”

They're going to hurt him, they have to. He tainted their ration packets, their water. Nothing makes sense.

“It's okay,” the woman says. She extends her hand toward him, and he jerks back with his heart in his throat. She hesitates and pulls her hand back. “I'm Cindy. It's nice to meetcha.”

He doesn't understand. Can't understand.

“What's your name, darlin'?”

He doesn't have one.

\---

Cindy doesn't hurt him. Cindy seems to want to help him. He comes to the conclusion that she thinks he's a person, because then her behavior makes sense: her forgiveness over what he stole, her concern over his health, asking for a name.

He shouldn't let her keep thinking that. He should show her his designation. But Aranea said never to show anyone his designation or his ports, and he can't- he can't talk. He isn't allowed to talk.

He's relieved. He shouldn't be, but he is, an overwhelming relief that leaves him feeling boneless, because there's no way for him to tell Cindy he's an MT, and so she'll keep treating him like a human, and it's. It's nice. So nice.

He's sitting on the soft thing- _couch_ , Cindy calls it, _I woulda put you in a bed but I wanted to keep you nearby for when you woke up._ It's so soft, and warm, and it's hard not to fall asleep in it.

There's a desk, strewn with papers, and a writing board, and a computer, and thousands upon thousands of small things that he doesn't understand. The room is warm and soft-colored, yellow light filtered into long lines from windows covered by plastic. It is strange, and new, and he understands so little but it still feels good.

Cindy gets a glass of water and encourages him to drink it in little sips, and it takes everything he has not to down it in one swallow. The the thought of puking is what stops him. The thought of wasting the water or tainting Cindy's blanket and couch makes his stomach twist.

When she leaves the room for a minute he frantically hides his ports, finger-combing his hair so it covers the ones behind his ears, tugging on his shirt so the tubes in his chest and stomach don't make obvious lumps. The ones along his spine are thankfully well hidden by his shirt and hair.

Someone's bandaged his fingers. He hopes, desperately, that they hadn't pulled his sleeves up. The leather bracelets are still over his barcode and wrist ports, but if they had blood on them too, they might have moved them.

Cindy comes back with a pen and a yellow pad of paper, which she holds out for him to take. He reaches, cautiously, still afraid, and is fast when he takes it from her hand. She holds still for the whole thing.

He holds it awkwardly in his lap. He doesn't know what to do with it.

Cindy waits a moment, then says, “Can you write your name for me, darlin'?”

He's not allowed to write. He doesn't have a name. He's not even allowed to shake his head.

“Whoa, hey, it's alright,” Cindy is saying. She sounds distant, like he's hearing her voice over a long tunnel. His breath is coming too fast, he realizes. A moment later the pad and pen disappears from his fingers, and it takes him a moment to understand that Cindy took them. “It's alright. Sorry, darlin', didn't mean to upset you.”

He holds still. His hearing is buzzing, he realizes, not quite like static, more of a hum. Was he upset? Did his face change? He's so used to the armor face plate. Knowing others can see the way his face stretches or dips, like it's not supposed to, is frightening.

“You don't gotta write anythin' if you don't want to,” Cindy says. “You don't gotta say anything either. But you can if you want to, alright? I'll talk with Paw-Paw and we'll figure something out. Alright?”

He swallows. Blinks.

He's not allowed to nod.

\---

Paw-Paw is a man. He's stranger than the men N H-01987 0006-0204 is used to seeing. His skin is leathery and seems to fit too loosely on his frame, pulled down into wrinkles at the edges. His chin is silvery with stubble and gray hair.

His eyes are sharp. His voice is sharper. N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks that if anyone's going to hurt him here, it will be Paw-Paw.

“You don't write, boy?” he says, flat and unimpressed. N H-01987 0006-0204 has to fight not to fidget. “What, you illiterate?”

“Paw-Paw,” Cindy says, her tone disapproving. Does she disapprove? N H-01987 0006-0204 tainted the water, will they hurt him for that? Maybe they changed their minds. Maybe they realized. “Look see, you're spookin' him.”

Paw-Paw grumbles without words and settles more firmly into his chair. He doesn't get up to hurt N H-01987 0006-0204. At least, not yet.

They're seated around a rickety table, with glasses of water and thin, plastic circles in front of them. There are metal instruments at each place that he vaguely recognizes as something the guards at the facility used to use when they ate, but he doesn't know their name and he doesn't have the data on how to use them.

The air smells- really good. Really, amazingly good. It smells like when Aranea roasts meat over the campfire, but better, somehow. More nuanced. N H-01987 0006-0204's mouth is over producing saliva, and he has to swallow constantly.

Cindy is bringing out plates of something. It looks like food. He hopes it's food. The hopeful thought, that he might get some, that there might enough left over for him, feels like a knife wound in his belly.

Paw-Paw grumbles, “I thought Reggie was doin' something about education beyond the Wall.”

“S'not the kid's fault if he don't write or talk. Do you want potatoes?” The last question is aimed at him. She's handling something that looks like chopped up edible roots. Looking at them makes the knife-feeling in his stomach twists. He swallows.

“I'll take that as a yes,” she says, and puts some onto the plastic circle in front of him.

He has to swallow saliva again. Were they- were they testing him? To make sure he functioned correctly? MT's didn't get sustenance packets until humans were fed.

But they think he is human.

He swallows. Looks up at them again, tries to gauge what they want.

“Oh for Six's sake,” Paw-Paw says. He looks pained. Cindy is also watching him, her brows coming together and a frown on her face. “Just eat, boy.”

Oh.

N H-01987 0006-0204 watches to make sure- doesn't know if they'll suddenly change their mind. It's that thought that spurs him, that they might decide not to feed him, and he scoops up some of the-potatoes- in his fingers and swallows them and _oh_.

It's good. It's so indescribably good. They're hot to the touch and they burn his mouth and throat and fingers and it doesn't even matter, because they're- they taste like root vegetables but better, nuanced and a little spicy and warm and more-ish, somehow, and. And.

His eyes are wet. He hardly notices, he's picking up more of the- the potatoes and putting them in his mouth and he's chewing and swallowing faster than he's used to, fast enough that his jaw and throat feel sore, and every bit is so overwhelmingly good.

His plate is empty in half a minute. He looks at the empty plate, his stomach gurgling softly, and he feels warmer. Heavier. The pained feeling in his stomach has lessened, no longer pressing at the forefront of his mind. He swallows, tries to keep the taste in his mouth.

“Six,” Paw-Paw mutters.

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks up. Cindy's only just put food in front of Paw-Paw and is paused putting food in front of herself, watching him. He swallows. He did something wrong. They're staring at him, and he did something wrong.

“Do you know how to use a fork?” Paw-Paw says suddenly. Without waiting for an answer he sorts through the food on the table and pushes a container of green things toward him. “Take some of this.”

They- are they offering him more food?

He looks up, disbelieving. Cindy hurriedly puts food down in front of herself and then reaches for the greens, taking a long metal instrument and using it transfer some of the greens to N H-01987 0006-0204's plastic circle.

“Pick up your fork,” Paw-Paw says. He picks up one of his metal tools. “The one with prongs.”

It's a command, easily recognizable. N H-01987 0006-0204 glances down, finds the tool like the one Paw-Paw's holding. He picks it up.

“Now,” Paw-Paw says, “You can hold it however you fuckin' like, but me, I like holdin' like a pencil. Like this.”

He holds it with the metal prongs pointed downward, the handle between his index and middle fingers and held in place with his thumb.

N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to copy him. It's awkward, because his hands are covered in bandages, making them thick and clumsy.

“Like this,” Cindy says, and suddenly her hands on his hands, manipulating his digits.

He freezes. But it doesn't hurt, and after a moment they're gone, and his hand is holding the fork like Paw-Paw.

“Yeah,” Paw-Paw says. “And then you just stab your food. Like this.”

He pokes something on his plate, spearing it on the metal prongs, and puts it in his mouth. N H-01987 0006-0204 watches. Understands. The instructions are very clear.

He pokes his food with the fork. Stabs one of the greens- they're a little slippery, but he gets one after a few tries. He puts the food in his mouth. Bites down.

His teeth scrape the metal prongs. It hurts.

“Oh, no,” Cindy says. “Darlin', you don't bite. Just- slip it off. Pull the food off.”

Okay. The verbal instructions are difficult, but not impossible. He stabs one of the greens again, the other green still in his cheek, and puts the food in his mouth. Tries to sort of.. slide it off.

“There ya go,” Cindy says.

“What kinda little mermaid shit,” Paw-Paw mutters.

“Ignore him, he's just a grouch,” Cindy says, and then she's putting some more of the potatoes and a few strips of meat on the plastic circle in front of N H-01987 0006-0204.

He stares. It's so much food. It's so much.

His eyes are wet and leaking, his nose is clogged and running. They eat. Neither Cindy nor Paw-Paw take the food away from him. They don't comment on his malfunctions.

\---

He needs to go back, needs to work on the wire dress. Needs to fetch the phone. Needs to find a steady source of food, of water. He can't depend on them. They might decide to stop feeding him, to stop sheltering him. They might see his ports. His designation.

Cindy puts a soft square on the couch, and two blankets. She folds another one and leaves it on the armrest. She pats the cushions, says ya can sleep here for now.

He trembles. Sits slowly, carefully, on the couch. Looks at Cindy.

Her eyes are sad, but she gives him a smile. He swallows. Lays down, pulls the blankets over him. The square soft thing cradles his head, and it smells good, a faintly flowery, clean smell. The blankets are warm. It feels so good, so improbably good.

He needs to leave. He needs to go back, find a water source. Start weaving the wire dress.

He closes his eyes, just for a minute.

\---

He dreams:

They're in Gralea, caught in a storm, barely two weeks since the facility. N H-01987 0006-0204 still vomits black sludge in the sunlight, but the tall MT with silver hair- Aranea- is insistent that he exposes himself to it in small amounts. Now he is weak from lack of food, from being sunsick, from the cold and confusion.

“You need to give yourself a name,” Aranea says.

N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks his head up to look at her. They're crouched under an overhang of rock, protected from the rain but not the wind, which seems to cut right through his jacket. His fingers are numb with cold and his arms are stiff from how long he's kept them tucked against his chest. Aranea is curled up too, a couple of inches between them. He is grateful they're not touching, because human contact is still new and frightening, but also torn, because it's cold, and he feels like his bones are going to shiver right out of his body.

“I h-have a designation,” N H-01987 0006-0204 chatters. His teeth are clicking together uncontrollably, a defect. He hopes this is another harmless one, and that Aranea won't notice.

“A name, not a designation,” Aranea says. If she notices she doesn't say. “There's a big difference, robo boy.”

MT units don't get names. But Aranea says he needs to give himself one. It's another conflict that make his chest feel tight. He doesn't know why, or how he would do that, and he shouldn't have a name. Names were for people.

He's not people.

\---

He wakes up with a start.

Burning bright sunlight is coming in the window. The room is empty except for him and the cluttered desk. There's a fly buzzing faintly around the ceiling.

He fell asleep. He fell _asleep_.

He jerks upright, paws at the window, peers through. It's day. The sky is clear and vast. There are people walking around, clattering sounds of machinery, yelling and talking and buzzing around. Cars are settled around the refueling stations, and as he watches, another one pulls into the driveway.

He has to, has to leave. Has to get out. He's checks his log, frantically, found he lost consciousness in the ration room at 1:33, woke at 15:00, ate food with Cindy and Paw-Paw, and fell asleep again at 22:00 hours, and woke up now, at 10:26. He's spent over 24 hours here. He's spent a full day.

He need to leave.

He scrambles to his feet. His boots are placed by the couch, and he shoves them on, ties the laces.

He walks, soft footed, trying fearfully to be quiet, until he finds a door that faces outward, away from the parking lot. It opens to a straight shot into the wilds, the barrier only about twenty feet away.

He bolts.

\---

He gets to the shack. For once, he isn't dizzy.

He leans against the wood. Breathes. He'll start freeing the lines of barbed wire, practice the knitting knots to make sure the instructions are correctly interpreted. He'll head out in the evening and find running water. He'll circle outward, looking for more sources of wire.

He can still taste the food, so faintly he's not sure if it's a malfunction of his sensors.

\---

He finds running water. He has a filter, but only for nutrients processed through his stomach port. Aranea used pills that dissolved in water and made it clean or boiled it in a little pot over a fire. He has neither pills nor a pot, and doesn't have the right modifications to produce fire.

He runs the risk calculation. Drinks the water. For the first three days, he is uncomfortably ill, gastrointestinal system functioning poorly, but then it starts to adjust, and drinking becomes less uncomfortable.

He eats the roots of grass and dandelions, eats the thicker, white roots he knows are edible. Chews fitfully on bark, when he can find it.

Inevitably, the knife-feeling in his stomach comes creeping back.

\---

On the fifth day, someone comes tramping over the rise.

N H-01987 0006-0204 is leaning against the shed in the shade, prying the wire into shape. The first circles for the waist have brought up another issue- how he'll get the dress over Aranea's new daemon shape. He's settled on leaving an opening in the front and putting a sash that he can tie shut over Aranea's belly. There are some dresses like that, although the opening is in the back. N H-01987 0006-0204 hopes that it still counts.

He's so preoccupied with the wire that he doesn't notice Cindy until she shouts.

“Hey!” she yells.

He jerks, head snapping upwards. Cindy is coming over the rise, immediately identifiable in the midmorning light, bright red hat and yellow curls. She's got a backpack slung over her shoulders.

He scrambles to his feet, knuckles white around the wire, heart in his throat. But it is Cindy, and the memory of potatoes and the greens still lingers in his head. He should move, he doesn't want to move, so he stands still, shaking with nervous energy.

“Hey,” Cindy says, gentler this time. She stops several feet away from him, too far to hurt or feed him. Both her hands are out in front of her again, up and open and empty, easily seen.

N H-01987 0006-0204 isn't allowed to talk. He stares at her.

“We were wonderin' what happened to ya,” she says easily. “Can I come over?”

He stares at her, flicks his eyes back over his camping spot. He's set up leaning against the side of the shack, in the meager shade it provides, because the open air is somehow more.. right then the inside of the shack. He's still holding the wire white-knuckled in his hands. There's a new cut on his palm, dribbling blood onto the ground, and it's all dirty over here and humans.. A lot of humans didn't like blood or dirt. The facility guards hadn't.

But Cindy is asking to come over, and he can't deny a human, so he shuffles awkwardly to the side, tries to shove some of the wire out of the way with his foot.

“Thanks, darlin',” Cindy says, and then she treks over uncomfortably close and slings her backpack onto the ground. N H-01987 0006-0204 shifts to the side, watching her as she crouches down and shuffles through her backpack.

“See, Paw-Paw and I got a bit worried,” Cindy says, “Young man bein' on your own an' all. Not that you're not capable,” she adds, shooting him a smile, “But outside the Wall's dangerous, y'know? Daemons at night.”

Cindy knows that he's not fully capable, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks, heart sinking. She knows about his malfunctions, or thinks he has the- the human equivalent of malfunctions. His fingers twitch around the wire, eyes flitting side to side.

Cindy pulls out a bottle of water, holds it out him. N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at it. She doesn't want him to take it, does she? It's water. He has access to water. It's an unnecessary resource. He shouldn't take what he doesn't require.

His mouth feels dry and he wants to take it, but he can easily trek the half-mile to his other water source and drink when he requires it. This water is a- an unnecessary expenditure- what the guards would call a luxury.

“Not thirsty?” Cindy asks gently, and he realizes he's been staring at the water bottle for a few minutes. He flits his eyes to her; her face is kind and open. She puts the water bottle down on the ground, reaches into her backpack, pulls out- food rations.

“How about hungry?” she asks, and N H-01987 0006-0204's stomach gurgles. She laughs, an earthy, rumbling sound that makes him feel odd and light, and she gives him a food bar.

N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitates. He runs the risk calculation, but there are too many unknown factors for a conclusive course of action.

Cindy did give him food before. This food smells different, a sweet smell that he recognizes from fruit, and a more mellow smell he doesn't recognize. He wants to eat it.

Cindy rips open the packaging for her bar and takes a bite out of it. He watches her for a moment, and then makes a decision. The facility would whip him for taking risky resources, but the facility isn't here, so he unwraps the food bar.

It tastes.. different, soft and sweet and melting in his mouth. He takes the rest in two bites, then stares mournfully at his empty hands when he realizes that it's gone.

“Wow, you're starvin', huh?” Cindy says. She fishes around in her backpack again. “Lucky for us I got some more.”

Cindy gives him more food, two more food bars and then a packet of dried meat- jerky. It's like last time, where the food seemed endless, but Paw-Paw isn't there. It reminds him, more painfully, of Aranea carrying him, weak from lack of substance packets, and putting strange mush in his mouth, teaching him to swallow.

They eat for a while in silence. N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders what Cindy wants, or if this is a normal thing humans do, if they find and feed each other. It seems wasteful.

“So me and Paw-Paw got to thinkin',” Cindy says out of nowhere. N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at her while she chews thoughtfully on jerky. “That you might not have a place to stay.”

N H-01987 0006-0204 does have a place to stay. The shack has wire, and water nearby. He can scavenge food. He glances around his camping spot, wonders what she thinks is missing. He looks back at her, confused.

Cindy hums, watching him, then says, “Is this where you sleep?”

N H-01987 0006-0204 hasn't quite worked up the nerve to sleep in the shack. He glances at the indent in the ground where he's been resting at night, the shallow hollow that protects him from the worst of the wind.

Cindy follows his gaze, and something in her face twists.

“Oh, honey,” she says softly. N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at her, afraid he's done something wrong, but the expression is wiped from her face before he can parse what it means.

“How would you like to come stay with me an' Paw-Paw?” Cindy says, and her face is back to being kind and cheerful. “Just for a little while, til we can figure something out?”

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at her. Tries to process what she's asking. He can't, he can't- they don't know what he is, he can't risk that, he needs the wire, he needs to get Aranea back.

He wants to. His chest aches and his eyes burn and he wants to but, but he can't take the risk, not without risking Aranea.

“Darlin',” Cindy says softly, “Oh, don't cry. Hey now.”

Something touches his shoulder. He jumps, instinctive, but it's just Cindy, and Cindy feeds him, so he watches with blurry eyesight as she gently places a hand on his shoulder.

It's warm, and something more than that; it touches the- the hollow feeling in him, the starving and beaten down thing in his chest, and his eyes burn and start to leak, his chest hiccuping and shaking, the sounds trapped behind his stubbornly shut mouth.

“Hey,” Cindy says gently, softly, “How about you think about it? And we can go back tonight so you have a warm place to sleep, and we can think about it more in the morning?”

N H-01987 0006-0204 shouldn't risk it. Not for Aranea, Aranea.

But he leans into Cindy's touch anyway, and later, when she stands up and picks up her backpack, he stands too, helpless to the blooming thing in his chest. He gathers up the barbed wire in huge armfuls, disregarding how it stabs and cuts into his arms and sides, and trails after her.

She frowns at the barbed wire. “You.. you sure you need that? It's cuttin' you up.”

N H-01987 0006-0204 holds it tighter, suddenly inexplicably terrified that she's going to take it from him. She looks at his face, must see the terror there, because her eyebrows pinch together and she hesitates before giving him a drawn smile.

“You're breaking my heart, darlin',” she says. Then she sighs. “Okay, we're bringing the wire. But after this we're getting you some work gloves or something, 'kay?”

Is she not going to take the wire? N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn't understand. But then she's walking back down the hill, towards Hammerhead, and he- he-

He follows.

\---

Paw-Paw is there when they arrive. He ruffles N H-01987 0006-0204's hair, tells him to get in the house, says he'll make some calls. N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn't know what that means, but the feeling of calloused fingers against his hair sinks into his skin with bone-deep satisfaction, and he spends the next few minutes hovering by Paw-Paw and hoping he'll do it again.

Paw-Paw doesn't. He does use a phone, talks to several different people. He seems to get more and more frustrated. The guards used to get angry like that, and the memory is still deep in N H-01987 0006-0204's head, so he leaves Paw-Paw be.

Cindy is busy doing something. N H-01987 0006-0204 is left alone, but a different sort of alone than before. Now he can hear Paw-Paw shuffling around inside the building, and further away he can hear strangers, humans he doesn't know, moving and talking and breathing and doing human things.

It's soothing. It also aggravating, because there are thousands of things happening that N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn't understand. He tries to balance the feelings out in his head so he can concentrate- he still needs to make the dress.

He sits on the concrete outside, behind the building, out of sight of the humans. He's brought the wire here, an armful of it, enough to get started. He's not sure how to find more, if Cindy and Paw-Paw will let him go out to fetch some, but for right now, this will do.

He closes his eyes. Listens to the sound of Cindy and Paw-Paw inside, shuffling around, doing human things. Feels the prickling wire beneath his fingers.

Gets to work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There are anxiety attacks and self-harm in this chapter.

Three days after N H-01987 0006-0204 comes to stay with Cindy and Paw-Paw, something odd happens.

 

Lots of odd things are happening.  Lots of things N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand, or lacks the data to understand.  He’s spent the first two days in a haze of processing, attempting to categorize as many of the unknown factors as possible, but it’s been a slow process.

 

He hasn’t been hungry or thirsty for three days.  It is much longer than he is accustomed to, and occasionally the lack of pain makes him feel uneasy, his stomach churning.  So he’s sitting out behind the building, out of sight, one hand full of barbed wire and the other pressed to his abdomen.

 

The sky is clear and blue.  The air is uncomfortably warm, but the breeze keeps N H-01987 0006-0204 comparably cool.  He can hear the buzzing of activity in the parking lot, cars clanking and humming and grumbling across the concrete.  He hears a purring sound, low and smooth, and hears the soft  _ thump-thump _ that signifies a car pulling into the parking lot.

 

He doesn’t recognize it as a car’s sound for the first couple of minutes.  Then, inside the building, Paw-Paw says, “Six, they broke the damn thing again,”  and Paw-Paw only fixes cars, or at least N H-01987 0006-0204 has only seen him fix cars, so: the purring sound is from a car.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders what kind of car would be able to make that sound, low and powerful, like a couerl, if it’s muffled from the inside or if it requires constant upkeep.  He wonders how it works.

 

Then Paw-Paw’s footsteps walk out the front, and N H-01987 0006-0204 hears:

 

“Oh it’s you.  What broke this time?”

 

“Ah, hello, Mr. Sophiar.  A pleasure, as always-”

 

“It’s Cid, and piss the pleasantries,” Paw-Paw says.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks down at the wire in his hands, confused.  Did Paw-Paw have a different name? Cid? No, Cindy always called him Paw-Paw.  Maybe it was a title?

 

The man Paw-Paw is speaking to has an accent, smooth and cool.  N H-01987 0006-0204 searches his databases and comes up with  _ Tenebrae _ , which fell to the Empire years ago.  N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows- was the man allied with the Empire?  Would he recognize N H-01987 0006-0204’s face? No, MT’s biological appearance was kept within the facility. 

 

His stomach gurgles uncomfortably.

 

There are other voices near the purring car.  One is deep and gruff, close to the facility guard voices.  The other is quiet, too soft to be heard.

 

“Nap the day away, princess,” the gruff voice sneers, and then the car door slams shut and heavy footsteps walk towards Paw-Paw and the Tenebraen voice.

 

“Oh, honestly,” the Tenebraen voice sighs.

 

“What?” The gruff voice says.  “He’s supposed to mingle outside the Wall and he won’t even get outta the car.”

 

“Maybe he’ll change his mind when I got the car on the jack,” Paw-Paw says.

 

“Doubtful,” the Tenebraen voice says.

 

They continue speaking for a while.  N H-01987 0006-0204 knows most of the words, but can’t make sense of the way they’re strung together.  The fear prickles along his spine, and this somehow calms his stomach. Fear is familiar.

 

He unpries his fingers from the wire, one by one, and starts shaping the vague outline of the skirt, keeping a part of his processing power on listening in on the conversation.  Most of his hands have scabbed over by now, his fingers and palms crisscrossed with half healed cuts. His daemon and human blood mixed together means the scabs are the same color as the rusted barbed wire, blending in.

 

He’s just preoccupied enough that he doesn’t hear the soft footsteps until they’re already coming around the corner of the building.

 

He jerks his head up.  There’s a human.

 

It’s about his size and shape, a little broader, maybe a little shorter.  Its hair is black and spiked strangely, hair falling unnaturally stiff over its face.  It’s slouching, walking quieter than most humans usually did, hands stuffed into pockets.

 

“Oh hey,” it says, casual.  Its voice is male. N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him, too startled to actually feel all that afraid.  “Didn’t realize anyone else was here.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t answer, and isn’t sure what he would say if he could.  His silence doesn’t upset the human, though, and he trudges uncomfortably close and throws himself down on the concrete next to N H-01987 0006-0204.

 

He wonders if he’s supposed to say something, or if he’s supposed to leave the human to this space, or just… what he’s supposed to do, exactly.

 

He blinks at N H-01987 0006-0204, hoping for some sort of prompt.  The human has gone quiet and relaxed, though, his breathing slowed.

 

He’s asleep.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at him, looks back up at the bright blue sky.  Didn’t humans sleep at night? Was this a guarding assignment, was he supposed to keep the human safe while he slept?  Was the human malfunctioning- the human version of malfunctioning- sick. Was the human sick?

 

He’s not allowed to speak, so he can’t request more instructions.  And the human is asleep anyway.

 

Can he stay here?

 

He looks at the human.  Looks at the barbed wire.  Moving the wire would be doable, but N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know a good spot he could move to that’s out of sight of humans, not without leaving the barrier.  And he shouldn’t leave the human unguarded.

 

He looks at the human again.  Still asleep.

 

Slowly, he starts working on the dress again.  This time he diverts part of his processing to his wide-area sensors, keeping watch for anything unusual.  If something happens he’ll be alerted.

 

He keeps working on the wire dress.  The human keeps sleeping.

 

The human’s breathing is soft and just barely audible beneath the breeze.  It seems to reach deep, to touch the starving thing in him, but.. differently from Cindy and Paw-Paw.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 shifts, tries to evaluate how the feeling is different.  It’s difficult, with most of his processing used in either the wire dress or in his wide area sensors, and his thoughts are slower to manifest.

 

Cindy and Paw-Paw… provided him with things, with food and shelter and clean water.  They had so far not punished him for taking the phone from the bright room. They treated him as something valuable, worth putting resources into his time and health.

 

The facility had provided him with sustenance and shelter, but what they had expected in return had been clear.  Aranea had provided him with food and data on the outside world, and upon request had told him that she all she expected in return was for him to “try his goddamn best.”  

 

But Cindy and Paw-Paw hadn’t requested anything in return, and while the terrible ache in N H-01987 0006-0204 is soothed, he still finds himself on edge, waiting for it.

 

This human hasn’t given him anything, but the starving, hollow feeling in him still recedes in the wake of his breathing.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to think about that.

 

His thoughts are slow.  N H-01987 0006-0204 feels like he’s walking through the thick mud of his thoughts, quiet, unhurried.

 

A lot of time passes.

 

\---

 

Two hours and fourteen minutes later by N H-01987 0006-0204’s internal clock, loud footsteps start stomping through the parking lot.  The gruff voice calls out, “Princess! Sleeping Beauty!”

 

The human beside him rouses, mumbles, “Oh shit.”  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.

 

“I’m not here,” the human says.  This appears incorrect, and N H-01987 0006-0204 runs through his sensors, but they seem to be in working order.  Before he can think much more on it, the human scrambles behind him, finds a tarp and rolls under it.

 

“Noct, you little shit-” the voice says, footsteps coming closer.  Than a human turns the corner, running his gaze over the concrete backstep, and N H-01987 0006-0204’s heart jumps into his throat.

 

This human is tall and broad and terrifying.  He looks like some of the guards back at the facility, the silhouette of him powerful muscle and scowling face, and the image is so ingrained in N H-01987 0006-0204’s memory that he sees-

 

He sees-

 

His vision malfunctions briefly, and he sees gray walls, and a flash of yellow hair and furious face, hand raised.

 

Then he sees the human again.  He swallows. Blinks.

 

“Hey, have you seen a kid?” the human says.  “Dark hair, ‘bout this tall, nerdy.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t allowed to nod or shake his head.  Isn’t allowed to speak. The human won’t get an answer, and he’ll be angry with N H-01987 0006-0204 for not functioning correctly.  His vision winks in and out, fluctuating between the bright blue sky and iron gray walls. He swallows, stares at the human.

 

The human’s eyebrows draw together, and then he says, “Whatever.”  And then he’s leaving, rounding the corner, back towards the parking lot.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  Tries to process. His eyesight flickers, settles on the blue sky, his stomach gurgles with unease.

 

“Is he gone?” the first human says.  His voice is muffled by the tarp. Then he’s rolling free, hair sticking up in odd ways and giving N H-01987 0006-0204 a grin.

 

“Thanks, man,” the human says.  “It’s just nice to get away sometimes, y’know?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know.  He still feels ill. But the human thanking him feels- good.  Odd, because he doesn’t know what he did, but good. He blinks, feels his face stretch into the expression it does when he feels nice.

 

“Yeah, you get me,” the human grins, and gently knocks his fist against N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulder.

 

He thinks suddenly, painfully of Aranea, of her fist gently knocking against his forehead.

 

“I should get going before Iggy throws a fit,” the human says.  And then he’s standing, walking away. The part of shoulder’s N H-01987 0006-0204 he touched feels suddenly cold and empty, and N H-01987 0006-0204 finds himself leaning towards the human’s retreating back, thinking of Aranea.

 

But the human is gone.

 

\---

 

Cindy sees his expression when she finds him that evening, and says, “Well, you certainly look like you had a good day.”

 

He thinks about it.  He has had a good day.  He’s made exceptional progress on the wire dress, and he is functioning well.  His face is making the pleased expression.

 

Cindy grins and holds the door open for him.  “Knew we could get a smile outta you eventually.”

 

\---

 

The day after that the sleepy human is still at Hammerhead. N H-01987 0006-0204 knows this because he walks into the garage and finds him slumped over a sleek, black vehicle.

 

It looks like a car made smooth and streamlined, something valuable, at odds with the dirt and rust surrounding Hammerhead.  The sleepy human is flopped over the roof, one leg dangling off to the side. Another human is standing near the car, his back straight and perfect, a pair of glasses on his face.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows what glasses are.  Some of the doctors used to wear them, and he finds the hairs on the back of his neck start to stand up.

 

“There’s no one here,” the sleepy human is saying.  “Who am I supposed to talk to? The potions guy?”

 

“That would be a good start,” the man with glasses says. N H-01987 0006-0204 recognizes his voice; it’s the man with the Tenebraen accent.  He sounds exasperated. “It would certainly be better than sulking for six hours.”

 

The human groans, “I told you, I was hanging out with someone-”

 

“Bullshit,” a gruff voice says again, and it’s the- the man from yesterday-

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t realize he’s malfunctioning until he wants to move but can’t.  His muscles are shaking. His spine is prickling.

 

_ It’s fine.  It’s fine. It’s not a guard, he doesn’t know what you are, he thinks you’re human, it’s fine. _

 

“I was-” the sleepy human says, rolling over, and then he spots N H-01987 0006-0204 where he’s frozen up in the doorway.  

 

His face lights up, and then he’s pointing.  “I was with that guy,” he says, and then he looks at N H-01987 0006-0204 and says, “Tell these guys, they don’t believe me.”

 

The Tenebraen man is looks at him.  His gaze is cool and calculating. N H-01987 0006-0204 feels suddenly, terribly transparent, and- the sleepy human wants him to talk.  He can’t. They’re going to find out.

 

There’s a huffing noise and then suddenly the large, gruff man is pulling himself upright from behind the car.  He spots N H-01987 0006-0204 and his eyebrows shoot up.

 

“You!” he bellows.  He is furious. “You didn’t say anything!  Was he hiding right next to you?”

 

He’s standing, terrible and tall and he knows.  He  _ knows. _  N H-01987 0006-0204’s heart jerks in terrible double rhythm and he’s frozen in place and he can’t move and he’s breathing fast and the man is mad and he’s standing and he’s going to kill him-

 

“...scaring him,” the Tenebraen man says.  His voice sounds distorted, staticky.

 

“-ey,” the sleepy human is saying, looking at him, eyes furrowed and dark, “You’re kinda freaking out.”

 

He’s malfunctioning.  He’s malfunctioning.

 

Suddenly the Tenebraen man is stepping closer, shoes clicking against the concrete, and N H-01987 0006-0204’s head jerks up and sees the flash of light off the man’s glasses and thinks, briefly, only a second long-

 

_ Metal- _

 

_ Lights- _

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 finds he can move after all.

 

\---

 

He ends up in his usual spot behind the building, unsure how he got there.  His head is staticky and jerky, running in stops and starts. His hands are shaking.

 

He needs to move.  He needs to stay still.  It is too hot and too cold, but his sensors say it is 34° C, well within acceptable parameters.  His fingers twitch, come crawling at his collarbone of their own accord, bite into his flesh.

 

That helps.  That is grounding, an outlet for the electricity beneath his skin.  He pushes his back against the wall and ignores how it scrapes his ports and dig his fingers into the muscle beneath his collar.

 

Ten minutes pass by his internal clock.  It feels like seconds, and it feels like days.  His head feels light and then heavy, disconnected from his neck, but it starts to steady.  The static fades out, until his thoughts process more acceptably and his heartrate slows to normal.

 

He loosens his fingers.  His heart jerks. He digs them in again.  His heart settles.

 

He stays like that for a little while.

 

It takes half an hour for him to be able to move about and behave normally.  Irritated red crescent shapes have formed on his skin, the kind of thing that will heal easily in a couple of days.  He feels oddly shaky and weak, despite performing no strenuous exercise.

 

He shuffles into the building with the couch where he sleeps.  

 

Cindy is there, at her computer, typing something.  She looks busy. N H-01987 0006-0204 wants- he wants-

 

He wants someone to touch his head.  He wants someone to bump his shoulder, to gently punch.

 

He can’t ask for it.

 

\---

 

More of the day passes.  N H-01987 0006-0204 spends it inside, where he won’t run into the other humans again.  He lies on the couch for a long time, Cindy typing nearby. The nearness helps, somehow, eases the shakiness in him.

 

She looks up at him at some point, distracted by her computer, and says, “Oh- didn’t see you there, darlin’.  What’s up?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at her.  She gives him a half-smile, tired at the edges.  “Well, I’m gonna keep workin’ here. Let me know if you need anything.”

 

And she goes back to the computer.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at the ceiling.  Feels hollow.

 

\---

 

Later at dinner, Paw-Paw says, “Boy.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 has learned that this means him.  He perks up and looks at Paw-Paw over the table.

 

Paw-Paw is scowling.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is getting used to it, because Paw-Paw is rarely not scowling.  “The princeling said Gladio scared you today.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand some of those words, but he does understand  _ scared _ .  He swallows, suddenly afraid.

 

“If anyone bothers you, you come straight to me, got it?” Paw-Paw wipes his mouth.  To the side, Cindy hides a half-smile behind her cup of water. “I’ll set them straight.  And don’t pay any mind to Gladio, he’s just loud.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204… doesn’t quite understand.  He tries to make sense of the words, but he’s mostly focusing on the new instructions.  If anyone bothers him, go straight to Paw-Paw. He’s an MT. MT’s don’t get bothered, or angry, and they’re not supposed to get afraid.  But Paw-Paw doesn’t know that, and he can’t tell him.

 

Paw-Paw’s quiet, like he’s waiting for a reaction.  N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at him, wonders what the right one is.

 

He takes too long.  Paw-Paw sighs and scratches his head.  “And, uh, another thing. We’re calling people to try and get you some help, but bureaucracy is clogging everything up.  It’s gonna take a while.”

  
  


N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what they mean by get him some help, but he doesn’t get time to process it.

 

“I hopin’ to get professional help for this, cause it’s clearly a big thing for you, I get it.  But boy, you gotta stop messin’ around with the barbed wire.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at him.  Doesn’t understand.

 

“You already cut up your hands pretty bad.  I dunno what it is, but we can find something else that helps, okay? Like knitting or something.  But you can’t keep hurtin’ yourself like this.”

 

_ They’re trying to take the wire from him. _

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks to his feet, shoves himself away from the table.  His chair goes over with a thunderous clattering sound, seems to echo through his ears.  Paw-Paw looks up in alarm, Cindy jumps, and he’s already stumbling away from them.

 

_ They’re gonna take the wire they’re gonna take the wire Aranea- _

 

Is this what they wanted, for feeding and sheltering him?  He should have known it was too good, he should have known they would take something too big from him.

 

_ Aranea- _

 

“Woah, hey!  Darlin’-”

 

He’s on the floor.  He doesn’t know how he got there.  There’s no air in the room, and his muscles are trembling and jerking, and his eyes are leaking fluid that stings and he’s making tiny, hitching sounds-

 

_ Not a peep. _

 

He slams his jaw shut, bites his tongue until he tastes copper, the sobbing trapped in his throat.  There are gentle hands on him, touching his shoulders.

 

He wanted touch.  He wanted it, but now it’s terrifying and too much on his skin, too hot.  He jerks and trembles under their hands, can’t escape, can’t ask them to stop.  Not allowed to talk, not allowed to  _ peep _ ,  _ and he did peep, he made a sound, did he lose Aranea, did that count, did he lose- _

 

“You ain’t breathing,” Cindy says, nearby.  She sounds frightened. “You gotta breathe, love.”

 

His fingers scrabble at nothing.  He needs to do something with them, anything-

 

He digs them into his neck.  The pain is sharp, anchoring, but he doesn’t get to keep it, because Paw-Paw makes a noise and then his hands are in an iron grip, pulling them away, and he’s unanchored in the face of something washing over him-

 

He shakes there.  He shakes to pieces, in that room, with Cindy running her fingers through his hair and Paw-Paw holding his hands.  He shakes apart.

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t quite know what happens, but they don’t take the wire from him.  

 

He wakes up early the next day, on the couch.  Cindy is on the floor, leaning against his thigh, asleep.

 

The wire, he thinks, dizzy, and he lurchs to his feet.

 

Cindy doesn’t wake up.  He stumbles outside, the cold morning breeze raising pebbled goosebumps along his skin, and then he’s stumbling to the side, where he keeps the barbed wire.

 

It’s still there.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels like he’s been hit with a wave.  A different kind of wave then last night, where he felt on the edge of drowning.  Now he feels shaky, like he might fall down, but in a good way. 

 

Cindy comes out a little bit later, looking alarmed, and relaxes when she sees him.  

 

He tenses up.  Paw-Paw’s voice is still fresh in his ears.

 

Cindy just gives him a tired smile.

 

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” she says, softly, “We ain’t taking it from you, not now, anyway.”

 

Not now.  Not now. They might take it from him in the future, but as long as it’s not in a year, he’ll be fine.  He’ll be fine.

 

His shoulders slump.  He just woke up, but he’s tired.

 

“C’mon,” Cindy says, “Let’s get you breakfast.”

 

\---

 

Later that day, N H-01987 0006-0204 is sitting in his usual spot, wrestling wire together.  He’s being more careful not to cut himself, because it seemed to be one of the reasons Paw-Paw was upset about him working with wire, and the added factor means its slow going.

 

“Oh, it’s you.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks and looks up.  It’s the sleepy human.

 

He slouches over.  N H-01987 0006-0204 glances behind the sleepy human, extending his sensors, but the larger guard man is not with him.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels odd.  The sleepy human was with the large guard man sometimes.  But he sat with N H-01987 0006-0204 and breathed. He isn’t sure if the sleepy human is someone to be avoided, and he should avoid him until he figures it out, but.. But he doesn’t want to.

 

The sleepy human sits next to him.  N H-01987 0006-0204 puts his wires down, turns to look at him.

 

“So, uh,” the sleepy human says.  He scratches his head, rubs the back of his neck.  “I wanted to say sorry, ‘bout yesterday. We didn’t mean to scare you so much.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  The sleepy human hadn’t scared him. The large man scared him.

 

“Gladio’s just stupid,” the sleepy human says.  He isn’t looking at N H-01987 0006-0204, and then he is, eyes flicking up and then to the side.  “So, uh, sorry about him.”

 

They’re quiet for a minute.  The sleepy human looks at him, looks to the side, can’t seem to find a place to rest his eyes.  He seems to be waiting for something.

 

“Oh, right,” the human says suddenly.  “Cindy said you didn’t talk. What’s up with that?”

 

The human knows he doesn’t talk.  N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows, reaches up and touches his throat, eyes flitting to the side.  The human will thinks he’s malfunctioning- sick. The human will think he is sick, and won’t know that it’s a conscious choice.

 

His hands feel damp.

 

“Shit, sorry,” the human says.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at him.  The human is peering at him with dark blue eyes, his face furrowed.

 

“You don’t have to talk about it- well, obviously, but you don’t have to- you don’t have to explain- fuck.  Okay.”

 

The human pauses, frowning.  N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t make sense of the words.  He’s not sure if the human is trying to convey something or not.

 

The human finally settles on, “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

 

Oh.  That’s good, because he can’t explain.  Not without talking. The human’s gaze is intense on his face, waiting for something.  N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows, nervous, and tries to stretch his face into the appropriate expression.

 

“Dude,” the human says, his eyebrows rising.  “That is the weirdest face.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know if that’s the appropriate response, but the human is already flopping over on the ground, hands behind his head.

 

“Anyway,” the human says.  “Gladio’s sorry, and I’m sorry.”  He shifts a little on the ground, seems uneasy.  “So I figured I’d hang out with you today. You didn’t seem bothered last time.”

 

MT’s don’t get bothered.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s not sure why the human mentions it.

 

Then he remembers: the human thinks he’s human too.  More than that, the human breathes in a way that’s nice, when he’s sleeping.  N H-01987 0006-0204 likes that. He hopes the human will sleep again.

 

He reaches out, shoves some tarp to the side so the human has more room.  Hopes that the human will stay.

 

The human relaxes minutely.  “Cool.”

 

Then he gets out a phone.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  It’s a rectangle phone, like Aranea’s.  The sleepy human had punched his shoulder gently, like Aranea.  The human is different from Aranea- hasn’t provided N H-01987 0006-0204 anything, hasn’t asked anything of him- but there are moments, comfortable and sincere, when the human does something casual that reminds N H-01987 0006-0204 painfully of her.

 

It feels odd.  Cindy and Paw-Paw provided him with things, but they seemed- careful, around him.  Like they knew he was malfunctioning. Aranea hadn’t been careful, she’d just been blunt, in a way that N H-01987 0006-0204 understood, and provided for his malfunctions when they were a hindrance.  

 

The human isn’t careful around him.  The human treats him like he’s functioning correctly, like he is normal.

 

It feels odd.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t function correctly.  The human acts like this isn’t true. Even though he must know, because N H-01987 0006-0204 was afraid yesterday, and he fled.  But the human doesn’t treat him like he’s broken.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  Watches the human mess around on his phone, pulling up an app with bright colors and stylized images for characters and objects.  He’s relaxed, eyes on his phone, like he doesn’t need to watch N H-01987 0006-0204.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Feels strange. Looks back at his wire.

 

Starts working again.

 

\---

 

About half an hour later, the human groans.  Stares at his screen for a moment. Starts tapping at it again.

 

A couple of seconds later he groans again and puts the phone on his stomach, flopping an arm over his eyes.

 

“This is the worst level,” he says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 tightens the wire.  He has the wide circle for the bottom of the skirt, and the narrower circle for the waist.  He’s trying to connect them with a long wire looped around both ends. It’s difficult.

 

He glances over at the human.  Tilts his head, curious.

 

The human peeks up at him from under his arm.  “They’re cheating,” he says, petulant.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at him.  Looks around. Can’t see anyone. Looks back at the human.

 

The human has his phone back up, and he’s looking at it with a frown.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks and looks at the phone.

 

The screen is blinking.  It reads:  _ Game Over _ in red letters.  The human sighs, taps the screen again, and the words wink out, replaced with the bright stylized images.

 

“This far back?” the human says.  “Seriously?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t sure who he’s talking to.  The human taps at the screen, and it starts to move. N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes that the human is controlling a stylized image of an armored human, traversing flat platform with pictures of trees and other foliage.  

 

After a few minutes, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks he understands the basics of the game.  The human controls the character by tapping the phone in different patterns. The character can run, jump, and roll.  Sometimes there are other characters that look like stylized pictures of animals and daemons, and these appear to attack the armored human.

 

Simulated enemies, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks.  It is reminiscent of the facility, but not in a bad way.  The simulations didn’t hurt, and it was occasionally even enjoyable.

 

The human defeats several enemies with relative ease, then slows down near a stylized stone building.  He opens a box labeled  _ Inventory, _ sorts some of the objects around, and then closes it.  He stretches, grumbles, “Okay, take two,” and directs his character through the door.

 

After a few minutes the human’s problem becomes apparent.  His character is through the door and faces down two enemies with relative ease, but more start to trickle in, and then more, and within maybe fifty seconds the human is facing down a slew of them.  He’s quickly overwhelmed.

 

The sleepy human swears as the words  _ Game Over _ flicker back on the screen.

 

“That’s cheating, right?” he says.  “Like, how am I supposed to keep up with that?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t think it’s cheating.  He thinks the game’s difficulty parameters are set the way they are for better training, like the ones back at the facility.  That’s not cheating.

 

The human grumbles something nonsensical under his breath, and then starts again.

 

He goes through it two more times, failing each time.  N H-01987 0006-0204 begins to understand the problem; the human is aiming for several bright enemies that appear to spit something dangerous at close range, and doesn’t mind the enemies that keep their distance.  The distant-shooter enemies don’t do much damage by themselves, and they’re easily killed, but several of them together beat the armored character down pretty quick.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders why the human doesn’t divide his time between the long-range enemies and the mid-range enemies.  The human seems to have poor management skills.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 quickly beats the thought back.  The human is  _ human.  _  It is not up to N H-01987 0006-0204 to question his skills.

 

The human, meanwhile, groans and flops back on the concrete.  “I give up.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  Blinks at the phone. At the facility, they didn’t give up.  They did and went up a level, or they didn’t and were decommissioned.  For a brief, stupid moment N H-01987 0006-0204 is scared that the human will be decommissioned, but then he remembers that he’s a human.

 

The human is peering at his face.  N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes he’s been staring at the phone.

 

“You wanna try?” the human says.  He throws his arm back over his eyes and holds out the phone with his free hand.  “Whatever, man, have fun.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at the human.  Blinks at the phone. Takes it with careful fingers.

 

The human doesn’t protest, just lies there with his arm over his face.  N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at the phone, realizes that he’s gotten rust on the screen.  He wipes his fingers on the edge of his shirt, and then touches the screen.

 

The  _ Game Over _ screen flickers out, and the character flickers in.  It’s back where the human was at the start. N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.

 

Does the human want him to play the simulation?  He can’t tell.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 taps the screen awkwardly.  The character moves to where his finger was. He blinks.

 

It takes him a couple of seconds to figure out all the controls, but it helps that he’d been watching the human play.  He traverses to the stone building where the human was having trouble, opens the door.

 

He lasts longer than the human by half a minute, fails before he can complete fighting the enemies.  The human doesn’t seem to notice, so he tries again.

 

The second time he finishes fighting the enemies, focusing on the long range enemies so their numbers remain relatively low.  He clears the room. The phone makes a sharp series of chimes and the sleepy human sits up, startled.

 

“Wait, you actually beat it?” he asks, and then he’s grabbing the phone from N H-01987 0006-0204’s hands.  N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows, suddenly nervous, hopes he hasn’t done anything wrong. Wasn’t he supposed to beat it?

 

“No way,” the human says, staring at the screen.  Then he looks up at N H-01987 0006-0204, frowning. “Are some kind of wizard?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what a wizard is.  He doesn’t think he is one. He swallows, flicks his eyes to the side.

 

The human’s phone dings.  “Fuck,” the human says, fumbling with it.  Then, a moment later, he says, “Fuck. I gotta go, Specs needs me.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  His chest starts to feel empty again, aching.

 

“You’ll still be here tomorrow, right?” the human asks.  He gets to his feet, stretches. Blinks at N H-01987 0006-0204, waits for an answer.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at him.  He will be here tomorrow. He isn’t allowed to talk, but suddenly, sharply, he wants to.  He wants to say  _ yes _ and _ will you come back. _

 

He hasn’t tried communicating without talking, doesn’t know how.  Still, he looks around the concrete, tries to think of a way to convey yes.

 

He pats his chest.   _ Me. _  Then pats the ground.   _ Here. _

 

Swallows.  Waits.

 

The human frowns, then his expression clears.  “Cool,” he says again. And then- “Do you not, like- shake or nod your head?”

 

He can’t.  He stares at the human.

 

“Or you can’t?” the human says, scratching his head.  “Weird. But whatever, I guess.”

 

And then the human is leaving, trotting around the corner, towards the parking lot.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  That doesn’t count right? He didn’t talk.  He didn’t shake or nod his head. He just… moved his hands.  That was all.

 

He hopes it didn’t count.

 

\---

 

Later that day, he smells something wonderful, sort of like the meat-and-potatoes from the first day, but different.  Warmer, somehow, more blended, but with more notes in it. He isn’t sure how to describe it.

 

He follows the smell into the kitchen and sees the Tenebraen man at the stove.

 

He freezes.  He didn’t think the other humans would be in this building- this is the building where he and Cindy and Paw-Paw sleep, and so far no one has been in here but them.

 

Before he can creep back out, the Tenebraen man straightens up and turns around to look at him.

 

“Ah, it’s you,” he says.  His face seems concerned, but slips into blankness so fast that N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t sure if his vision simply malfunctioned.  “I was hoping to talk to you, actually.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him, slides his eyes away.  Tries to not look the man in the face, where his glasses shine in the light.  He can’t deny a human, but if he’s just quiet and obedient the man will let him go.

 

“I wanted to apologize for my companion’s behavior,” the man says.  There’s a pot in front of him. The smell is coming from it. “He occasionally forgets that not everyone is used to his presence, and reacts rather poorly to being tricked.  But while he is a very visually intimidating man, I assure you he doesn’t mean any harm.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  They’re talking about- someone who had scared him?  The large man? The sleepy human had something similar.

 

“In any case,” the Tenebraen man says, “He wanted me to apologize for him if I saw you.  I do hope you can forgive him; underneath the rough exterior he is a good man.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stands there, tries to process the words.  It’s hard with the food nearby, making good smells, but the subject of the large man is frightening and he wants to pay attention to it.

 

The large man.. Didn’t mean him any harm.  Wouldn’t hurt him. Logically, N H-01987 0006-0204 understood that this made sense; the large man thought he was a human and would treat him that way.  But his head seemed to have difficulty processing it. Something in him remembered the silhouette of the facility guards overlayed the large man, which he knew was a malfunction of his sensors, but it persisted.

 

But the man wouldn’t harm him.  It was more comfortable to believe he would, but N H-01987 0006-0204 acting like the man was dangerous caused concern in the others.  Conclusion: he must act like the man will not harm him.

 

He knows the man won’t harm him.  It shouldn’t be hard. But his mind is reluctant to process it.

 

The Tenebraen man coughs.  N H-01987 0006-0204 looks up, sees the man watching him with a calm face from behind his glasses.  N H-01987 0006-0204 looks away quickly.

 

“I’ve had a thought,” the Tenebraen man says, “Why don’t you and Miss Aurum and Mr. Sophiar come to dinner tonight?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at the floor.  There is so much of this conversation that he doesn’t understand.

 

“His Highness has taken quite the shine to you,” the Tenebraen man says, “And I would like to make up for my companion’s behavior, as well.  I’ve been told I’m quite the cook.”

 

He doesn’t understand.  He knows the individual words, but they’re strung together in patterns that don’t make sense.  What is a cook? Shine means a reflection of light off a surface- what does it mean in this context?

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 remembers the phone he stole, still hidden under the floorboards of the shack, far from his reach.  Feels stupid.

 

“If you could pass along my invitation to Miss Aurum and Mr. Sophiar, I would appreciate it most sincerely,” the man says.

 

The man turns back to the stove.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what’s been asked of him, but he recognizes a dismissal when he hears one.  He hurries out of the kitchen.

 

He stops in the room with the couch.  Sits down.

 

He can’t pass along something.  He can’t pass along anything. He can’t talk or write or even shake or nod his head, and his words are locked behind his teeth.

 

He should go back.  He should get the man’s attention, point to his throat.  That would be enough, wouldn’t it? To say he couldn’t pass the message along?  The man is perceptive. N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks he would understand.

 

He thinks about the flash of light on the man’s glasses.  He remembers the flash of light on the doctors’ glasses, off the pristine floor in the surgery room, and his stomach churns.

 

He swallows.  He should go back.

 

He doesn’t.

 

\---

 

That evening, N H-01987 0006-0204 sits down for food with Cindy and Paw-Paw.  He shuffles the food around his plate, then shuffles it the other way. For some reason, the smell is making his stomach churn more.

 

“You havin’ a bad day?” Cindy asks, gentle.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at her.  He is functioning well. He completed an adequate amount of the dress today.  But the words stick in his head, bad day. He had a productive day. It still feels bad.

 

He didn’t pass on the message, he thinks.  That’s why he feels bad. He performed inadequately.  He should have found a way to communicate it to Miss Aurum and Mr. Sophiar- Paw-Paw.  He should have found out who Miss Aurum is. He should have gone back into the kitchen.

 

He swallows.  He is inadequate and malfunctioning.  He already knew this, but now it’s pressing on the forefront of his mind.

 

Cindy gently presses a hand to his shoulder.  He leans into it.

 

\---

 

The next day, N H-01987 0006-0204 wakes up to the front door opening.

 

“Hey, Iggy,” Cindy’s voice says.  “What’s up?”

 

“Ah, I wanted to apologize,” the Tenebraen man says, and N H-01987 0006-0204’s heart jerks into his throat.  “I didn’t think that an invitation to dinner might have been too much, considering the circumstances.”

 

“A invitation to what?” Cindy says.  She sounds startled and amused, on the start of a laugh.  “Why, Iggy, I’m flattered, but you ain’t really my style.”

 

“I wasn’t referring to- Miss Aurum, please.  I meant my offer of dinner for all of you last night.”

 

“We got invited to dinner?” Cindy asked, bewildered.  Then, a groan. “Were you cookin’? Now I’m gonna be sad all day.”

 

“Yes, I..” the Tenebraen man pauses.  Then he says, “Forgive me, I assume the young man didn’t tell you?”

 

There’s another pause, and then Cindy says confused, “You mean- the blonde kid?”

 

“Yes.  I assumed he was under your care.”

 

“He is,” Cindy says.  “He doesn’t talk, though.  He couldn’t have told us.”

 

There’s silence for a minute.

 

“His Highness informed me that he didn’t speak,” the Tenebraen man says.  “I rather thought that he had... some other form of communication with you.”

 

Cindy sighs.  N H-01987 0006-0204 hears her shift in place, like she’s leaning against the doorframe.

 

“You might be able to help with this, actually,” she says.  The Tenebraen man shifts. “The kid doesn’t talk or write. He doesn’t even gesture, I don’t think.  We don’t even know his name.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t have a name.

 

“We’ve been trying our Six-damned best,” Cindy says, “But it’s all guesswork.  We have to guess what he needs, and there’s no way to tell if we’re gettin’ it right. And-” there’s silence for a moment.  Then, when Cindy speaks again, she sounds pained. “He’s skittish as all hell. He almost had an anxiety attack when I offered him a pen and paper.  He  _ did  _ have an anxiety attack, a couple of days ago, when Paw-Paw tried to get him to stop messin’ around with- well, he’s making something with barbed wire, and he’s cuttin’ himself up doing it.”

 

There’s silence for a little bit.

 

“Pardon,” the Tenebraen man says.  His voice sounds mostly the same, but there’s an odd inflection that N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t read.  “He, ah. His hands are scabbed over.”

 

“Yeah,” Cindy says, like the Tenebraen man asked a question.  “Yeah, he did that to himself.”

 

They’re quiet again.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stares up at the ceiling, at dust motes floating in the pale morning light.  His stomach is churning.

 

“I see,” the Tenebraen man says softly.

 

“Yeah,” Cindy says.  There’s a sound, like she’s pushing hair out of her face, or like she’s rubbing her eyes.  “Paw-Paw’s been callin’ Insomnia refugee centers, and domestic abuse centers, but it’s been slow.  He needs help, and we’re really not- we’re in way over our heads.”

 

“Ah,” the Tenebraen man says, and then he inhales, barely audible.  “Well,  _ that  _ is something I can help with.”

 

“Oh thank the Six,” Cindy says. “You are a goddamn saint.”

 

“Nonsense,” the Tenebraen man says.  “I am merely acting as any decent human being would.  And if that were not plenty reason, his Highness has taken a liking to the boy.”

 

“Really,” Cindy says, sounding amused.

 

“Quite,” the Tenebraen man sniffs. “He actually gets up at a reasonable hour to sneak off and see him.”

 

“Six,” Cindy says, surprised.  

 

“My thoughts exactly,” the man says.  “But the boy’s suffering is reason enough.  I shall make some calls.”

 

Cindy sighs, soft.  She sounds relieved.  “Thank you, Ignis.”

 

“Of course,” the man says, and then he’s moving away and Cindy is shutting the door behind him.

 

They think he requires help.  N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks of the word  _ professional, _ remembers the doctors and the scientists.  He feels stiff and frightened. They think he needs help, and they’ll send him to doctors to pick apart.

 

Cindy’s footsteps start coming towards the couch room.  N H-01987 0006-0204 hurriedly closes his eyes. He doesn’t want her to know that he’s heard the conversation.

 

She pauses in the doorway.  Sighs. 

 

“What are we gonna do with you,” she says, so soft N H-01987 0006-0204 almost misses it.

 

_ I don’t know, _ he thinks, voice trapped in his throat.

 

She leaves.  N H-01987 0006-0204 lies there for a while.

 

\---

 

Later that morning, N H-01987 0006-0204 is sitting in his usual spot with the wire in his lap.  His stomach hurts. His chest feels gaping and hollow, the starving thing in him crying beneath his ribs.  

 

He should work on the wire.  For some reason, it feels like a momentous task.  He can’t even lift it. His body is fully functional, but he can’t make himself move.  His head feels heavy and there’s a persistent ache behind his eyes.

 

There’s footsteps, and then the sleepy human comes trotting around the corner.

 

“Hey,” he says, bright, and then he slows down, frowns.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t summon the energy to turn and look at him fully.  He can see the bottom half of his face, but the rest of his expression is beyond his field of vision.

 

“Hey, are you okay?” the human says.  Then the human is crouching down, sitting beside him.  Puts a hand on N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulder.

 

Something is rising in N H-01987 0006-0204’s throat.  He just barely chokes it back before it can become a sound.  The sleepy human’s hand is warm on his shoulder, comfortable, and it feels like the warmth is circling outward, radiating into N H-01987 0006-0204’s body.

 

He leans into the human’s hand before he can stop himself.  The human jerks, makes a surprised sound, and suddenly N H-01987 0006-0204 is collapsed against him, boneless, his whole side pressed up against the human, and every point of contact feels alive and good.

 

He shouldn’t be touching the human.  He can’t bring himself to pull away. He trembles, stuck between the need to lean forward and the frustration with his own inadequacy.

 

“Woah, hey,” the human says.  “It’s okay. You’re okay, man, it’s alright.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 chokes.  He’s not alright. He’s not. He’s malfunctioning and inadequate and needs professional help, and they’re going to send him away to the doctors and scientists and he should run, he should get away, because he has to make the wire dress for Aranea and he can’t risk Aranea, Aranea, but he hasn’t yet, keeps putting it off.  Taking resources he doesn’t require. Malfunctioning. Selfish.

 

“Hey,” the human says, softly, and then the human’s arm falls around his shoulders.  Pulls him closer.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 freezes up, disbelieving.  He’s pressed up against the human’s chest, head tucked up against the human’s neck.  He’s half in and half out of the human’s lap. He can hear the human’s heartbeat echoing in his ear even without sharpening his sensors.

 

It’s warm.  It’s good. N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t describe it, doesn’t have the words.

 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the human says, “Hey,” and pulls up the sleeve of his shirt, wiping his nose, touch gentle.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at the shiny residue he’s left on the human’s shirt. Feels disgusting.

 

“Hey, it’s okay,” the human says.  “Is this- shit. Is this about Gladio?”

 

He doesn’t know who Gladio is.  He can’t shake or nod his head. He feels sticky, and tired.

 

“Or is it like- a talking thing?”

 

It is a talking thing.  It is, it is, because he can’t talk, and he can’t bring himself to run away even though it’s risking Aranea.  His eyes burn. He realizes he’s started shaking harder.

 

“Woah, hey,” the human says.  He holds N H-01987 0006-0204 tighter.  The hand around his shoulders rubs at his arm, the touch reassuring.  “Hey it’s okay.”

 

It’s not okay.  He can’t talk. He can’t find another way to communicate.  He’s malfunctioning.

 

“No, I  _ mean _ it,” the human says.  N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks, wonders how the human knows what he was thinking.  “It’s okay you can’t talk. I mean- well.”

 

The human trails off for a minute.  N H-01987 0006-0204 shakes against him.

 

“Here,” the human says, and then he takes N H-01987 0006-0204’s hand and guides it around to the small of his back.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand.  Then the human pushes up his shirt, presses N H-01987 0006-0204’s hand to bare skin, and then he does.  There are scars there, calloused and irregular beneath his fingers.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 presses gently, disbelieving.  What did that to a human? There’s something else rising in him, a sick feeling, but not because of his own failures.  A bad feeling, about.. The human. The human’s health.

 

“I got attacked when I was little,” the human says.  “I couldn’t walk for a while. And sometimes it hurts for no reason.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels the scars.  The human lets him.

 

“It wasn’t my fault,” the human says.  “But I still have it, y’know? I still have days where everything hurts and I gotta lie down for the whole day.  Which, I mean, most people think is a dream come true for me, but it’s kind of not. I feel useless.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wants to protest.  The human isn’t useless. Humans weren’t useless.

 

“But I gotta remember that it isn’t my fault.  Like, I might not be able to move, but it’s not because I decided to not move.  It’s cause I can’t.”

 

The human presses on N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulder, holds him tighter.

 

“So whatever reason you can’t talk- I dunno if it’s a brain thing or a physical thing, whatever- it’s not your fault, y’know?  It’s awful that’s it’s happening to you, but it’s not your fault.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wants to protest, wants to think _ if only I was functioning, _ but- that’s not the problem, is it?  The problem is that the man transformed Aranea, and then made a deal with N H-01987 0006-0204.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 accepted the deal, so he is partially at fault.  But he had to. He had to, because he had to help Aranea.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is still crying, but- it’s not all his fault.  It’s not all his malfunctions.

 

He leans further into the human.  Cries for a long time.

 

The human holds him.

 

\---

 

Later, when N H-01987 0006-0204 feels exhausted and sticky, like a wrung out rag, he leans against the human’s chest, too tired to shake.  He feels soft and calm.

 

“Hey,” the human says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 leans up, tilts his head to let him know he’s listening.

 

“I know you don’t talk or anything,” the human says, “But you can call me Noct.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  The sleepy human gave him his name.  His name is Noct.

 

“Even if it’s just in your head or something,” the human-  _ Noct _ says.  “It gets pretty tiring, being called Highness all the time.  So-” he shrugs with one shoulder, shifting under N H-01987 0006-0204’s head.  “Noct.”

 

Noct, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks.  Noct, who sleeps next to him, who doesn’t ask anything.  Noct, who understands the hurting.  _ Noct. _

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hopes he can say Noct’s name one day.


	3. Chapter 3

He dreams:

 

They are on the border of Tenebrae, or where the border used to be.  But Aranea is considerably more relaxed now because, under Empire control or not, Tenebrae is still ruled over by the Oracle’s family line, and the Empirical influence is more tempered here than it is in the areas around Gralea.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 can see it in the way she walks, the lines of her relaxing.  They spend more time traveling in daylight now, and she changes what armor she wears- less of it, the pieces easily hidden beneath clothing, and the rest of it packed away in bags. 

 

They travel on roads instead of tracking through the wild.  Occasionally, there are people ahead or behind them, or passing in the opposite direction.  The hairs on N H-01987 0006-0204’s neck are constantly on end, and he finds himself feeding more of his power into wide-area sensors.

 

“Relax,” Aranea tells him at some point.  “Humans aren’t something to be afraid of.”

 

That is- so incorrect that N H-01987 0006-0204 is certain that Aranea must have a severe informational malfunction.  He looks at her, and he’s sure he must be making some expression, so he tries as best as he can to school his face back to the appropriate neutral state.

 

“That is not correct according to current data,” he says.

 

Aranea rolls her eyes and huffs a half-laugh.  “Fucking Six.”

 

They’re walking on a half-abandoned road, but even in its state of disrepair it is easier to traverse than the wilds.  It winds through a forested area, and the air is deep and green. The smells are new and strange. This far down, the sunlight is diluted, and no longer hurts, just causes a persistent itch in N H-01987 0006-0204’s blood.

 

“So, here’s the thing,” Aranea says.  “The data you have on humans- what was imported and what was learned?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 considers.  It’s an easy question; the data imported into his head is all factual, physical weaknesses, where to hit and when.  There is other data, mainly on how to act in the presence of a superior officer, but most of it is on how to incapacitate or kill a human most effectively.

 

The data that he’s learned feels different.  Less instant, more something he has to feel out.

 

“Imported data, in summary: physical weaknesses.  Learned data, in-” he thinks, tries to line his next words up. “In summary,” he repeats, “The doctors are most satisfied with compliance and will make visits faster if obeyed.  The training room guard at 12:40 hours has a weak ankle. All guards have a short blunt weapon, a taser, a-”

 

“Okay, hold up,” Aranea says.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stops. “Why do you remember the guard with a weak ankle?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks.  Tries to process the right words.

 

“The training room guard at 12:40 hours,” N H-01987 0006-0204 says slowly, “acts irregularly.  He creates tests with a difficulty level beyond my group’s current capabilities, and then punishes us when we inevitably fail.  It is important to learn who is dangerous to the group so in the event they become unacceptably dangerous they can be incapacitated most effectively.”

 

Aranea stares at him.  N H-01987 0006-0204 shifts.  Hopes he’s answered right. Thinks he has, because Aranea looks  _ delighted. _

 

“You’d be killed if you hurt a facility guard,” Aranea states.  She’s starting to grin.

 

“Yes,” N H-01987 0006-0204 says, and then, because Aranea likes it when he adds information, he says, “Imported data states that the safety of the group takes precedence over the safety of any individual.”

 

Aranea stares at him.  And then she throws her head back, starts laughing, wild and loud.  

 

The sound is startling, and for a second N H-01987 0006-0204 takes a step backward as he processes.  But it is strangely light. It makes him feel less tired, the aching in his feet and legs receding. So he steps forward, keeps pace with her.

 

“Holy shit,” she says, breathless with laughter, “I fucking  _ love _ it when their programming comes to bite them in the ass.”

 

Aranea is an MT and shouldn’t feel love.  Her laughter is light in his chest and ears and while he does think this, for once he does not feel the need to state it out loud.

 

“Yes,” he says instead, which makes Aranea laugh so hard she’s crying.

 

Later, when she’s calmed down, she’ll explain: all the data N H-01987 0006-0204 has learned is from humans within the facility.  He has established this as the base data for all humans, when he should take into account the humans outside the facility, who act radically different.  They are sometimes harmless, sometimes not, but almost always important resources.

 

This information points to a frighteningly large gap in N H-01987 0006-0204’s knowledge.  He has inadequate data, for a complicated subject that requires most of his attention when interacting.  This will make him uneasy for months to come.

 

He doesn’t dream that far.  He dreams of Aranea’s laughter, light and easy and loud, and the way it echoes through the trees.

 

\---

 

That morning he’s back to working on the wire dress, trying to work out several issues with his original idea.  He thinks he’s going to have to make several circles to outline the width of the skirt as it flairs outward, and then attempt to weave the vertical wires inbetween, or else the dress will never hold it’s shape.

 

So he’s wrestling more wires together, when heavy footsteps come trudging around the back of the building.

 

“Noct, are you here-” the gruff human says.  N H-01987 0006-0204 whips his head up.

 

The gruff human stops abruptly, blinks at him.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s spine freezes up. He needs to act like the man won’t hurt him.  He needs to relax. He needs-

 

“Fuck, sorry,” the gruff man says, his eyes sliding away.  He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just- get going.”

 

Then he’s turning around and leaving, tramping around the corner of the building.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  He’s sure that any second now the gruff man is going to come thundering back, but the footsteps fade away towards the parking lot, and he’s gone.

 

He left N H-01987 0006-0204 alone.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 has to evaluate that.  His spine is still frozen up, but it jerks itself free, and he’s only left with nervousness in his stomach.  Surely the- the gruff man would come back? He’s convinced he will, surely that can’t be what the gruff man wanted.

 

He waits.  The gruff man doesn’t come back.

 

He starts working again.

 

\---

 

Later that day, the sleepy human- Noct- comes running around the corner.

 

“Hey!” he says, excited.  N H-01987 0006-0204 looks up, startled, pokes his thumb on the wire.  “Iggy said he’s inviting you guys over for dinner.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  His spine and stomach have calmed down since the gruff man, but it still takes him a second to process Noct.  It usually takes him a second to process unexpected things. He usually puts more processing power into his wide-area sensors, but working on the dress is taking up more of his power than he’s used to.

 

“Oh, and Iggy said to tell you that he’s telling Cindy and Cid, so you don’t have to worry about it.”  Noct flops down beside him, putting his hands behind his head. “Dunno why he was so insistent.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 tentatively thinks that Iggy is the Tenebraen man, but he can’t ask for clarification and something else is bothering him anyways.  The gruff man is a companion to Noct and the Tenebraen man, so the gruff man would be there. Which, he reminds himself, would be fine. The gruff man would not harm him.  He must act as though the gruff man will not harm him.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 bites his lip, considers.  He could divert part of his processing power to keeping his heartbeat even.  It was easier to prevent malfunctions that way. The bigger breakdowns, like the one when Cindy and Paw-Paw said they’d take the wire away, where his muscles contracted and trembled and his eyes leaked and he couldn’t breathe- 

 

He realizes his heartbeat is elevated.  He blinks and directs his line of thought elsewhere.

 

...Those kinds of breakdowns were easier to prevent if he had forewarning.  So he would eat dinner with Noct, the Tenebraen man, the gruff man, Cindy, and Paw-Paw, and he would keep his heart rate even, and he would be fine.

 

“Hey, you’re zoning out,” Noct says, and then he’s snapping his fingers in front of N H-01987 0006-0204’s face.  The sound is loud and sharp; N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks and turns to where Noct is studying him.

 

“I think you were zoning out, anyway,” Noct says. He doesn’t seem offended, just genuinely curious.  “S’hard to tell.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  Is that a malfunction? He was processing information- so no, not a malfunction, but a mistake.  He delegated his power poorly, didn’t leave enough left over to attend to Noct. And Noct, as a human, took precedence. 

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 made a stupid mistake.  He almost berates himself, and then stops, because that would require processing power, and he needs to delegate more to Noct.

 

“It’s not bad or anything,” Noct is saying.  “I’ll snap my fingers at you or something and you can shove me if you were paying attention.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Tries to catch up to what Noct is saying.

 

“Anyway, we’re having skewers,” Noct says.  “Which, meh, but at least it’s hard to sneak vegetables into.”  He looks at N H-01987 0006-0204. “Sound good?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at him.  He doesn’t know what skewers are, but can glean from context that it’s food and, well.  All food sounds good. Its food. 

 

“Right, no yes-or-no questions,” Noct says.  He shrugs one shoulder, lazy. “Well, guess we’ll find out.”

 

Then he’s pulling his phone out.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  He feels like he’s missed the meaning of all of the conversation.  He doesn’t have enough data to understand and doesn’t have enough means of communication to respond.  He doesn’t know what Noct meant to accomplish by speaking to him, but he doubts it’s been accomplished.

 

His stomach hurts.  He knows he doesn’t function at full capacity, but the lack of data is frustrating.  His failures are frustrating.

 

“Hey,” Noct says.  He’s thrusting the phone under N H-01987 0006-0204’s nose.  “I’m having trouble with this level. Can you do it?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  Blinks at the phone. It’s the simulation, with the stylized enemies and armored human.  _  Level Start  _ blinks at him from the bottom of the screen.

 

Oh.  N H-01987 0006-0204 knows how to do this.

 

He takes the phone with ginger fingers.  Taps  _ Level Start. _

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 and Noct finish several levels on the simulation.  Noct sometimes says “Wait, lemme try,” and takes the phone from him, giving it back again when he runs into trouble.  Noct is very vocal, not necessarily with words, but he groans when the simulation beats him and makes pleased hissing noises when he accomplishes a task.

 

When N H-01987 0006-0204 plays, Noct watches him and gives advice.  It’s mostly bad advice, but N H-01987 0006-0204 follows it anyway, because Noct’s a human.  Sometimes this causes his character to die unnecessarily, but usually it’s not too hard to work around.  Occasionally, when he does something especially complex or finishes something with a high difficulty level, Noct will say “Yes!” and slap N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulder in the good way.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 likes it.  It does not require him to talk, and now that he is used to the controls it feels familiar and safe.  Noct is fluid and lazy and stretched out like a cat, but there is energy in the way he shouts and laughs, excited about the game.

 

At some point, Noct checks the Inventory.  “Shit,” he says. “We gotta town up.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what that means, but Noct doesn’t ask him to do anything.  He taps an icon, and a stylized door pops up and swallows the armored character, and they are suddenly in a new environment.

 

After a couple minutes N H-01987 0006-0204 understands; it’s a base resupply run.  The armored character speaks to other characters- N H-01987 0006-0204 categorizes them as allies- and gains supplies in return for part of a number labeled  _ Gold. _  N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks  _ Gold  _ must be a measure of how well they performed; the better the performance, the higher the number, the more supplies they are allowed to acquire.

 

The characters speak to each other in lines of text.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to analyze the dialogue, but most of it appears unnecessary.

 

One of the characters Noct visits has yellow hair and is animated bouncing from foot to foot.  His face is open and eager. His appearance is similar to N H-01987 0006-0204’s in a way that at first alarms him, but after it becomes clear it is not based on his MT gene group, it interests him.  Even stylized, he has never seen an MT look… bright, like this character does.

 

It is nice.  He would like to be that bright.

 

The character says, in yellow-backed text,  _ I’ll get that for you, pronto!! _  He smiles so wide his eyes close.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tilts his head.  It’s pleasing. He wants to smile like that.

 

“Dude,” Noct says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 startles and looks at him.  There’s a half-smile on Noct’s face, and he’s studying N H-01987 0006-0204’s face.

 

“You were making faces again,” Noct says.  N H-01987 0006-0204 reaches up to touch his skin, self-conscious, but Noct says, “No, I meant like- like you were smiling.  Kind of. Looked like a tortured cat.”

 

Oh, the pleased expression.  It still feels odd on his face, stretching muscles he’s unused to using.  He scrunches his face, tries to relax it back into the neutral state.

 

“S’not- bad,” Noct says, but he doesn’t clarify what he means.  He looks back down at his phone, then back up at N H-01987 0006-0204.  “You like him?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t answer, but Noct must draw his own conclusions from his expression.  

 

“Yeah, he’s pretty neat,” Noct says.  “He looks a bit like you.”

 

He does.  He uses a lot of exclamation marks.  N H-01987 0006-0204 has never exclaimed unless he was in pain.  It’s odd to see it used in excitement.

 

_ I’ll get that for you, pronto!! _ the character repeats as Noct takes another item.  Seconds later, the item appears in the Inventory. N H-01987 0006-0204 knows all the words except for _ pronto,  _ which he tentatively thinks might refer to the method in which the items are delivered.

 

He could ask Noct.  Noct seems to know what he’s thinking a lot.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitates.  Noct is looking at the phone, humming.  The character’s dialogue is still on the screen, waiting for a fingertap to disappear.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 reaches out.  Touches the back of Noct’s hand. He feels tense and nervous.

 

“Yeah?” Noct asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 points at the screen, at the word  _ pronto. _

 

“What, the dialogue?” Noct asks, peering at the screen.

 

That’s kind of what he meant.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tilts his head.

 

“Yeah, he’s kind of excitable, isn’t he?” Noct says, and… that’s all he says.  He takes two more items and closes out of the dialogue for the character. The word  _ pronto  _ fades from the screen.

 

The disappointment makes N H-01987 0006-0204’s stomach feel heavy.  He frowns at the screen. It was to be expected; he had malfunctions and no means of communication.  He should not be surprised or disappointed.

 

He realizes he’s delegating too much power to internal processes and starts paying attention again.

 

\---

 

Noct stays for much longer this time.  Eventually N H-01987 0006-0204 feels off.  He wants to work on the dress, but that would require delegating resources elsewhere.  He’s wasting time, but he has to pay attention to Noct.

 

Afternoon stretches on into evening.  N H-01987 0006-0204 watches the shadows lengthen.  The barbed wire in the graying light looks like thorns.  He feels ill.

 

“Highness!” someone calls, distantly.  

 

It’s Cindy.  N H-01987 0006-0204 perks up, swiveling around.  Noct says, “Oh shit,” and taps his phone. “It’s that late?”

 

Cindy comes around the corner.  There’s car oil smeared on her face.  She spots N H-01987 0006-0204, and shoots him a warm smile that makes him feel light inside.  She leans against the building, easy.

 

“Dinner’s ready,” she says, cheerful.  Her gaze flicks to the barbed wire and for a second there’s something off about her expression, but then it smoothes out.  N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders if it was a visual malfunction. “C’mon, kiddos.”

 

“I’m only like a year younger than you,” Noct grumbles.  N H-01987 0006-0204 springs to his feet. He likes dinner.  Maybe Noct would be distracted by his companions, and after dinner he could go back and spend a few hours working on the dress to make up for time lost.  Noct groans and takes longer to get up; N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders if his back is bothering him, but he seems fine and makes no expression of pain.

 

“Still a baby,” Cindy says easily, and then while Noct splutters she curls her arm around N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulders.  He leans into her. “C’mon, darling.”

 

They don’t go into the building where Cindy, Paw-Paw and him usually eat food.  Instead they head out towards the parking lot and then a bit further than that, where a camping ground has been set up.  N H-01987 0006-0204 recognizes most of the equipment, although it’s bright and colorful instead of the gray facility-issued ones he’s used to; there’s a tent and half a dozen chairs put around the firepit.  

 

He looks around, doesn’t see the gruff man at first.  Then he spots a large shape sitting in one of the chairs around the fire, the warm light playing against his patterned skin.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  Diverts some of his attention to his heartbeat.  There. He’ll be fine.

 

“Hey Gladio,” Noct says, throwing himself into one of the chairs, splaying himself out like he’s exhausted.  

 

“Hey, princess,” the gruff man- Gladio- says.  His voice is deep. N H-01987 0006-0204’s skin feels itchy and too small for his body.  “Have fun skipping training?”

 

“You bet,” Noct replies, easy, and then he’s pulling his phone back out.  The gruff man scoffs.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hovers.  Is he.. Is he supposed to stay near Noct?  Should he stay between Noct and the gruff man- no, they were companions, and Gladio wouldn’t attack Noct.  Should he assist Noct? Was Noct even playing the simulation?

 

Cindy’s arm presses against his shoulders, steering him to a seat.  He follows, relieved at the clear instructions, even if they are nonverbal.  The seat is to the left of Noct, with a clear view of Gladio and the edge of the barrier beyond.  Gladio has a book open on his lap, both of his hands easily visible and clearly empty. It helps.

 

Cindy sits on his other side, leaning back and stretching.  “Paw-Paw’s finishing up somethin’, he’ll be here in a minute,” she says.  “Where the cook at?”

 

“Ah, in here,” the Tenebraen voice says from the tent.  Moments later, Iggy emerges with his arms full of small glass bottles.  He sweeps his gaze over the campfire, sees N H-01987 0006-0204 and Cindy.  “Oh, good, I did hope you’d both make it.”

 

“Wouldn’t miss your cookin’ for fame nor money,” Cindy says.  Gladio grins. 

 

Iggy adjusts his glasses. “Kind of you to say.”

 

They start talking, an easy back and forth that N H-01987 0006-0204 can only sort of follow.  Cindy and Iggy do most of the conversation, as Iggy chops meat and vegetables on a hard surface with a gleaming knife.  Gladio speaks sometimes, but he’s mostly occupied with the book in his lap. Noct uses his phone the whole time. N H-01987 0006-0204 wants to help Iggy, but Cindy had pushed him toward a seat and she probably expected him to stay there, so he tries to repress his malfunctioning, fidgeting limbs and watches the meal come slowly together.

 

The light fades from the sky, turning the light red and orange.   The air starts to turn cool, and then cold. Paw-Paw shows up at some point, sees the fire and grumbles at the state of it, and spends five minutes building it up so it snaps and crackles in the cool air.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 watches sparks float against the sky, mixing with the first flickering stars.  Gladio puts down his book to point out different constellations, his voice calm. He doesn’t move from his chair and his movements are slow and easy.  Cindy is solid at N H-01987 0006-0204’s side. He is afraid, but not as afraid as he could be, the fear a mild thing and easily repressed.

 

He knows different orientating stars for if his GPS or mapping malfunctioned, but Gladio seems to be describing something different.  He’s pointing to groups of stars and naming them, talking about each one like it forms an image.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks upward, tries to see it.  Only really sees the glittering stars.

 

He wonders if he’s lacks the data to form the images, or if it’s another malfunction.  His chest hurts. He wishes he could see them.

 

\---

 

Later, Iggy hands him a stick with chunks of meat and vegetables on it.  The meat is raw, but there is fire nearby. N H-01987 0006-0204 is wondering if he’s supposed to eat it raw or cook it when Cindy sticks hers over the fire, hovered a couple inches above the flame.

 

“Uggh,” Noct says.  “Gladio, do mine for me.”

 

“No,” Gladio says succinctly, and then throws one of the sticks at Noct.  He catches it, cursing.

 

“If you drop them you won’t be getting any more,” Iggy says, not even turning around.  He’s sliding the last of the chunks onto the sticks. There is a pile of them stacked neatly on his flat, wooden surface.

 

“Boy, you know how to do this?” Paw-Paw says.  N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks, realizes he’s talking to him.  He knows how to do this. Aranea always cooked meat on sticks over the fire, and sometimes plant matter or fruit.  She taught him.

 

He puts his stick over the open flame.  Paw-Paw watches it for a minute, but he must perform satisfactorily, because he grunts and attends to his own stick.  N H-01987 0006-0204 feels warm.

 

“Why are there vegetables on mine?” Noct whines.

 

Iggy says, dryly, “Because it’s my solemn hope you survive past your thirties.”  

 

“Fat chance,” Paw-Paw grumbles, turning his stick.  Cindy laughs and elbows him in the side, and to N H-01987 0006-0204’s surprise, he lets her do it with minimal fuss.  “The way he’s going he’ll die before he’s twenty.”

 

“Unfortunate, but hardly surprising,” Iggy says.

 

They go back and forth for a little while, talking about how hard it was to care for- well, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks they’re talking about juvenile humans, but he’s not sure.  After a couple of seconds Noct leans over so his head is close to N H-01987 0006-0204’s head.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 turns to look at him.  Noct elbows him in the side- enough to hurt, but not enough to make N H-01987 0006-0204 flinch- and then he’s sliding something off his skewer and on to N H-01987 0006-0204’s, the movements calm and easy.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  There’s a new chunk of bell pepper on his stick.  Was Noct  _ giving  _ him his rations?

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at Noct, but he’s back to leaning his skewer over the fire, toasting the meat.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204… can’t accept this.  He doesn’t require more rations, and Noct must eat the correct proportion of rations in order to operate well, and N H-01987 0006-0204 can only assume that Iggy gave him the correct amount.  But he can’t deny a human, and Noct gave him the vegetables, so- so-

 

Oh.  N H-01987 0006-0204 slides a chunk of meat off one end of the skewer and holds it out to Noct.

 

“What?” Noct asks, and then his face lights up.  “Oh! Thanks.” He takes the half-raw meat, hissing at the heat and almost dropping it before sliding it onto his skewer.

 

“Ah, is the meat not to your liking?” Iggy asks.  N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes the question was directed at him and looks up.  Iggy is frowning thoughtfully. Noct beside him suddenly seems very interested in the fire.  “I can cut up something different, if you would prefer-”

 

“He eats everythin’,” Cindy says, smiling.  “I think he’s trying to curry his Highness’ favor.”  She elbows him in the side with a wink. N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks back, unsure if he’s missed some part of the conversation.  He hasn’t even eaten the meat yet, but he’s sure it’s fine. Humans don’t eat food unless it’s of good quality.

 

Iggy sniffs.  “I’m sure there’s no need,” he says, “His Highness is quite taken with you.”

 

It’s hard to tell in the firelight, but N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks that Noct flushes, curling tighter on the chair.  “It’s nice to have a decent gaming partner around,” he grumbles.

 

“Cute,” Gladio says.  Noct kicks him. Against a larger opponent, it is utterly ineffective, but Gladio doesn’t retaliate.  Perhaps it’s like the shoulder-hitting thing, a signal of companionship. If it’s not, N H-01987 0006-0204 will have to remember that Noct is a poor fighter, and adjust his combat parameters to factor in defending Noct.

 

His stick is looking cooked enough for safe eating.  He pulls it back and glances around. There’s no fork.  With Aranea they always ate with their hands, and he believes that to be acceptable, but he is not certain.

 

“Done?” Paw-Paw asks him.  He pulls his own stick back and inspects it, before grunting and tearing a bit off with his teeth.  Oh. It was eaten by holding both ends of the sticks and chewing the food in the middle. N H-01987 0006-0204 knows that Paw-Paw is a safe resource for data on how to eat food, so he takes the stick between his fingers and eats.

 

Except- it’s incredible.  It’s so good. N H-01987 0006-0204 has to stop, to process, because it’s better than anything he’s ever tasted before, warm and juicy and the vegetables have a strange cool green taste, even though they’re hot from the fire, and it’s faintly spicy and savory and there’s a complex mix of tastes like- like- like the sounds in songs, where they are all different but all slide together somehow, and-

 

His eyes are wide, and suddenly he’s eating it fervently, and just as quickly it’s gone.

 

“Damn,” Gladio says.

 

“Well,” Iggy says, “I’m glad you liked it.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at him in wonder.  Iggy is smiling with just the corner of his mouth.  How did he make that? He must have a very high level of skill.  N H-01987 0006-0204, before he can really stop himself, sucks each of his fingers clean of the taste and then starts chewing on the stick.

 

“Darlin’, you don’t eat that,” Cindy says, and plucks it from his mouth.  He jerks, but Cindy’s a human and he does what she says. He wants to protest- he was not eating it.  He was getting the taste out- but he can’t and he’s sure Cindy knew better anyway. “You’ll get splinters in your tongue.”

 

“There’s plenty more where that came from, besides,” Iggy says, and he reaches for another stick.  

 

His phone rings.  Iggy frowns, stops, pulls it out.  Looks at it, before saying quickly, “‘Scuse me,” and standing, walking some distance away so the firelight barely laps at his heels.

 

“I thought he had that on silent,” Noct says.

 

“Please,” Gladio says.  “With Specs?” He reaches for the pile of sticks, takes two of them.  Passes one to Noct. “Give that to Blondie.”

 

“What about me?” Noct complains.  He takes the stick, holds it out.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  Blinks. He’s… holding the stick out to him.  He wants N H-01987 0006-0204 to take it. N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t require more food.  He has processed an adequate amount to continue functioning well. He shouldn’t take what he doesn’t require.

 

The taste lingers in his mouth.  N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows. It’s fading, and he- wants to take the stick, but he shouldn’t.  He shouldn’t.

 

“Don’t want any more?” Noct says, looking at him.  Then he’s frowning, leaning closer. “Hey- hey don’t cry.  What’s wrong?”

 

Is he crying?  His eyes feel sore, but they aren’t leaking.  Beside him, Cindy turns to look, puts a warm hand on his shoulder, and that feels good.  Feels right.

 

“Hey, you don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to,” Noct is saying.

 

“I think-” Cindy says, and then she scoots her chair closer, wraps her arm around his shoulders.  Pulls him. He leans into it, careful, and she pulls his head against the crook of her shoulder and neck, pulled awkwardly over the side of the chair, and it feels nice.  The plastic is biting into his side, but it’s still- nice. Grounding.

 

They stay there for a couple of seconds.  The ache behind his eyes starts to recede.

 

“Did you want more to eat?” Cindy asks, pulling back.

 

He stares at her.  He doesn’t require more.  It is unnecessary, and wasteful.

 

Suddenly Noct is leaning over, saying, “You know you can have more if you want?  No one minds. Iggy always makes too much, anyway.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at Noct.  Tries to process what’s being said. There’s an… excess?  There’s an excess of food and N H-01987 0006-0204 may have some if he likes.  For no other reason than that he likes it. Which makes sense. They think he’s a human, of course they would grant him human privileges.

 

He’s never- eaten when he hasn’t had to, before.  He stares at Noct. Stares at the stick with food, certain he’s going to change his mind.  But no, that wouldn’t be logical, because they think he’s human, so N H-01987 0006-0204 slowly, disbelievingly, takes the stick.

 

Noct is watching him.  Cindy is too. Paw-Paw is fiddling with the fire and Gladio is staring at the stars, but they’re both quiet, and can hear the exchange if they wish.  N H-01987 0006-0204 shifts, puts the stick over the fire.

 

They’re quiet for a moment, and then Gladio says, “Hey Noct, is that the Bole?”

 

Noct stops staring at N H-01987 0006-0204 and looks at where Gladio is pointing overhead.  He peers into the sky, muttering, “Fuck, I don’t know, all the stars look the same.”

 

“You’re the prince and you don’t know the goddamn stars.”

 

“Shut up, we haven’t covered that yet.”  He peers overhead. “Maybe? It’s a star-shaped constellation, how am I supposed to find that?”

 

“The stars are literally fucking yellow.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

They bicker back and forth for a while.  At some point, Cindy pokes him in the side again and looks him over, analyzing, but she seems satisfied with what she finds, because she gives him a smile and goes back to eating.  N H-01987 0006-0204 cooks the food, turning the stick carefully, afraid to drop it. He’s more nervous about wasting it than he was about wasting his first one, despite the fact that this one is excess and does not accomplish any necessary tasks.

 

He finishes eventually and starts to eat.  Gladio gets started on a story about “Bole,” which N H-01987 0006-0204 gleans from context is a special tree that grew all of the first life-forms.  This seems highly unlikely, but he has no data on this subject and must accept Gladio as the better source. Gladio’s voice is low and easy, and he tells a sequence of events- a story, Aranea used to tell these and call them stories- about the World Tree and the birth of life.

 

The World Tree protects the small or weak.  This is logical- it is a defending unit for those injured or not fully combat functional- but it is also somehow more than that.  N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks of sleeping beneath the dead wood of the shack, safe from the wind. He thinks of the fire, keeping the chill at bay.  He thinks of Aranea, towering over him, her laughter echoing through the green shade of the trees in Tenebrae.

 

It feels good.

 

\---

 

Later, Iggy comes back with a thoughtful frown on his face.  When he sits, he almost slips, and N H-01987 0006-0204 catches the quiet shift as Iggy adjusts to prevent himself from falling over.

 

“Who was that?” Noct says.

 

“Lord Lucis Calum,” Iggy says.  “He’s- expediting some things for me, rather unexpectedly.”

 

“Weird,” Gladio says.

 

“It’s Uncle,” Noct says, “Everything he does is weird.”

 

“Be that as it may,” Iggy says, “In this case he is being very kind, and I would thank you not to call him that while he’s doing me a favor.” His eyes flick over to N H-01987 0006-0204 and his face softens.  “Ah, I see you’re enjoying the food.”

 

He is enjoying the food.  He turns the stick another quarter turn.  His face is stretching oddly, he realizes.  It’s- doing the thing. The pleased thing.

 

“Yeah,” Noct says, his eyes flickering, “Hey, Iggy-”

 

Cindy coughs.  It’s loud. N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at her.

 

“Uh- later,” Noct mutters.

 

“Smooth,” Gladio says.

 

“Shut up.”

 

“... Very well,” Iggy says.  “I’m glad the dinner was enjoyable.  Can someone help me with the dishes?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 can help with the dishes.  He doesn’t know what that means, but he wants to help.  Iggy made- made very good food, and let him eat the excess.  He would like to help. He would like to be useful to Iggy. He stands quickly, follows him.

 

“Ah, thank you,” Iggy says.  He sounds surprised. “That was very prompt.  I expected certain people to drag their feet, as it were.”

 

“Royal benefits,” Noct yells.

 

“Shield duties,” Gladio says.

 

“I’m a guest,” Cindy says, cheerful.  Paw-Paw makes a grumbling sound and doesn’t get up.

 

“Useless, the lot of you,” Iggy sniffs, and then he pulls the wooden surface and knife off the ground.  “Well, luckily skewers aren’t too hard to clean up after. There’s a bucket around here somewhere…”

 

Iggy gets N H-01987 0006-0204 a bucket and instructs him to fill it with water, directing him to a pump.  N H-01987 0006-0204 knows how to use these- Aranea had shown him, a while back, explaining that humans used them to obtain water that was already untainted- and he hauls the bucket off.  The water is freezing on his hands, leeching the warmth out of his fingers, but they operate well enough and he hauls the water back with little trouble.

 

“You’re very prompt,” Iggy says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at him, confused.   _ Prompt.  _  He doesn’t know what that means.  Iggy must see his expression, because he frowns, thoughtful.

 

“Ah, it’s a good thing,” Iggy says.  He uncaps a bottle full of blue liquid and squirts a bit into the bucket, stirring it with a stick.  “It means  _ on time.  _  Or  _ quick. _  His Highness could learn a thing or two from you.”

 

Oh.  Quick.  N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitates, looks at the sky.  He was the smallest one in his gene group, and the worst fighter, and the guards were always correcting him for reacting too slowly.  He’s- he’s supposed to be quick. But he malfunctions a lot, and he’s not sure if he’s actually quick. Perhaps Iggy is misinformed.

 

_ Prompt.  _  The word feels nice, though.  N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders, briefly, if Iggy knows what  _ pronto _ means too.  Maybe he’d be able to explain.

 

Iggy finishes stirring the bucket.  It's bubbling over with froth, now. Oh.  It's a cleaning tool. 

 

They wash the wooden slab and the knife.  He hopes he's prompt.

 

\---

 

Later, as Iggy is packing up the cooking instruments, Noct wanders by and does the friendly shoulder punch thing.  N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at him attentively.

 

“Thanks for helping me with that level,” Noct says.  He could be referring to any of the phone game levels N H-01987 0006-0204 assisted him with.  He’s shifting side-to-side, not quite nervous, more uncomfortable. Has he made Noct uncomfortable?

 

Noct leans over, awkward, and bumps shoulders.  It’s warm and good. N H-01987 0006-0204 bumps back, gentle pressure, which he thinks is the right response.  Noct smiles, relaxes a little bit. N H-01987 0006-0204 hopes he’s no longer uncomfortable.

 

“I’ll see you around, yeah?” Noct says.  “You should come visit Insomnia. I got some good games there.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 will see Noct around, he thinks.  Why is Noct mentioning this? He’ll see Noct in the morning.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 pauses, pokes at this thought.  It comes up from nowhere, seems solid. He wonders when he stopped being surprised at Noct’s company and started expecting it, wonders when Noct became constant.  He’s only known him for six days. It feels both shorter and longer.

 

But Noct had to leave at some point.  Everyone who came here came to repair their cars, and then they left.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know if the smooth, sleek car Noct came in is repaired, he realizes.  Noct could be leaving tomorrow, and he’d have no idea.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  Maybe Noct was saying he should visit Insomnia because he’s leaving soon.

 

“Hey,” Noct says, elbowing him.  N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks, looks at him.  “You’re zoning out again.”

 

He was- zoning out.  He blinks at Noct, wishes he could convey an apology with his face.

 

“You should visit, though,” Noct says.  And then he shifts, his eyes sliding away again.  “If that’s your kinda thing.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what Noct’s talking about.  But suddenly it strikes him: Noct might be leaving soon. N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know when he’d see him again, if he ever would.  The last time he sees Noct could be now, with the starlight in his hair and the firelight in his eyes. He didn’t get the chance to know _ this will be the last time I see Aranea, _ and now he has to wait a year before he sees her again.

 

He wants Noct to smile.  The thought comes to him so fast and strong that is pushes over N H-01987 0006-0204 like a wave, but he thinks, fast, thinks of how to get Noct to smile.

 

He reaches out.  Shoulder-punches, gently.

 

Noct blinks, looks at him.  N H-01987 0006-0204 looks back, and then Noct is smiling.

 

“Great,” Noct says.  “I’ll see you there, yeah?”

 

_ Yes,  _ N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks but doesn’t say.

 

\---

 

The next day N H-01987 0006-0204 wakes up and knows.  He goes to the back door and checks, just to be sure, but Noct’s campsite is empty and the sleek car is gone.  There’s an imprint where the tent used to be, and flattened grass around the chairs, but it’s empty of people.

 

He circles around.  There’s no sign of Iggy or Gladio or the car anywhere in Hammerhead, and so he must assume that Noct is gone too.

 

The ashes are still in the firepit.  N H-01987 0006-0204 reaches in, runs his fingers through them.  It’s warm against the morning chill.

 

He hopes he sees Noct again someday.

 

\---

 

Later that day he’s sitting with the barbed wire in his lap, staring off at nothing.  Working is suddenly hard again, for no discernable reason. He has no physical ailments.  It’s just- lifting the wire feels insurmountable. The area behind his eyes ache.

 

“Hey, darlin’,” Cindy says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks, looks up.  Cindy is coming around the corner of the building.  She has paper in her hand, he realizes, and a pencil.

 

She crouches down beside him and he shifts to make room, and she pats his shoulder in the warm nice way.

 

“I need a favor,” Cindy says.  N H-01987 0006-0204 straightens.  He hopes it’s something he can do.  Then Cindy is putting the paper down on the ground, and she says, “Can you put your hands flat on that?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at her.  Looks at the paper. He doesn’t understand the purpose.  Is it a test?

 

He put his hands on the paper.

 

Cindy gently pokes and prods his fingers, moving them around.  It doesn’t hurt. N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders what it’s all for, and then Cindy is tracing around his hands with the pencil.  It’s ticklish. None of it is painful.

 

“Thanks, darlin’,” Cindy says, and then she picks up the paper, smiles at him.  “That’s all I needed.”

 

… okay?

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 watches her go, confused.  Then he looks back at the wire, thorny and tangled in his hands.

 

His shoulder feels cold now that Cindy is gone.  It’s felt cold a lot today, despite the outside temperature being within acceptable range.  Maybe he’s gotten used to a human sitting next to him. Maybe he misses the faint presence of Noct’s body warmth, solid on his skin.

 

Maybe it’s good that Noct left.  He no longer has to delegate power to attending to him.  He has more time to make Aranea’s dress.

 

Yes.  He needs to focus.  He needs to make Aranea’s dress.

 

He picks up the barbed wire again.

 

\---

 

Later, as the afternoon starts to stretch into evening, Paw-Paw comes trudging out of the house.  N H-01987 0006-0204 puts his wire down, looks at him as he sits down slowly, groaning.

 

“Boy,” Paw-Paw says.  His presence is warm next to N H-01987 0006-0204, and it feels good.  “I gotta talk to you about something. It’s nothing bad, but if you need me to stop talkin’, I need you to hold your hand up.  Alright? Can you do that?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  He doesn’t understand- he will not need Paw-Paw to stop speaking.  It will not damage him, he does not think.

 

“Hold your hand up now,” Paw-Paw says.  “Can you do that?”

 

He can.  He holds his hand up, hesitantly, hopes he’s doing it right.  Paw-Paw peers at him, then grunts, sounds satisfied.

 

“Put yer hand down,” he says, and N H-01987 0006-0204 obeys.  “Alright. So here’s the thing. Remember Ignis? The tall geek with the glasses.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitantly thinks that Ignis is one of Iggy’s names.  He blinks, keeps looking at Paw-Paw, hopes he doesn’t look confused.

 

“He’s lookin’ into some stuff for us, and we thought- well.” Paw-Paw frowns at nothing, and then he looks at N H-01987 0006-0204. “We thought you could stay with him for a while.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204… doesn’t understand any of that.  Stay with Iggy? Where? N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t even know where Iggy lives.  Then he thinks of the food, from last night, and he swallows. 

 

“Just a little while, until you could figure out whatever you gotta figure out,” Paw-Paw says, “He said you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.  He’d get you set up in a room in the Citadel.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at nothing.  How long was “a little while”? Shorter than a year?  Longer? If it was too much time, would they let him take the barbed wire?

 

He realizes he’s clinging to the wire.  Paw-Paw sighes.

 

“Boy, you can take that,” Paw-Paw says.  He sounds odd, hollow, pained. N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  Oh. That’s- okay, then.

 

And then it occurs to him: Noct.  Noct is Iggy’s companion, and if he goes to stay with Iggy then maybe- maybe Noct will be there.  Maybe he’ll be nearby, maybe he’ll get to see him sometimes, maybe-

 

He realizes his face is stretching in odd ways, his mouth half twitching in a smile, his eyes wide.

 

“Well,” Paw-Paw says.  He sounds fond. N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at him, sees that he’s smiling.  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

 

It is a yes, N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes.  He does want to go. He’ll have his wire, and he’ll get to see Noct, maybe.

 

Paw-Paw leans in and says, “C’mere,” and then his arms are around N H-01987 0006-0204, holding him close.  It’s good, and warm, and it feels different then Cindy or Noct. Paw-Paw is leathery, soft, and beneath his shirt his ribs are hard against N H-01987 0006-0204 like a wire rack.  He smells faintly like car oil and metal. He feels somehow fragile, and when N H-01987 0006-0204 leans into him he finds himself being careful, afraid to injure him.

 

Paw-Paw lets him go, ruffles his hair.  It feels nice, warmth spreading all the way down his body.

 

“It won’t be for another week or so,” Paw-Paw tells him, “And if you ever get tired of it, you can come right back here, alright?  You’re always welcome here.”

 

_ Always welcome here _ , N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks, and the warmth of the words sinks deep, deep into his bones.

 

\---

 

Three days later, N H-01987 0006-0204 walks into the kitchen.  He's looking for a glass of water, the sun outside hot on his chest and shoulders, the echo of the heat still there even in the shade.

 

Cindy’s in the dining room, fiddling with something, which she immediately shoves beneath the table, staring at him.

 

He stares back.  Wasn't Cindy usually in the garage?

 

“Nothing to see here,” she says, and then gathers the thing up into her hands and walks quickly away.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn't get a good look at it. He's confused.

 

He waits for a minute.  Cindy doesn't come back.

 

He gets the glass of water.

 

\---

 

A couple of days later, at dinner, Paw-Paw says that Ignis called him.  Everything's been set up, and he'll be around to pick up N H-01987 0006-0204 in four days.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels jittery and ill.  He clicks his fork against the table, against the plastic circle he now knows is called  _ plate _ .  It's not a bad feeling.  He's not sure if it's a good one either.  It's just- there.

 

“Excited?” Cindy asks.  Her voice is cheerful, but her face seems- sad, a little bit.

 

He is excited.  But Cindy is sad, so he turns to look at her, to discern the issue so he can fix it.

 

Cindy just smiles at him.  Paw-Paw also has the same expression, some mix of happy and sad that N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn't understand.

 

“We'll miss you, darlin’,” Cindy says.

 

“You'll be happy there, though,” Paw-Paw says.  “Ignis will take good care of you.”

 

Oh.  

 

They shouldn't miss him.  He has drained their resources.  He has provided no labor in return.  Unless they relied on him to use his wide area sensors? Was he supposed to have guarded them?  Or maybe he was supposed to occupy Noct?

 

They think he's human, he remembers.  They… really will miss him.

 

He stares at his plate.  His fork is still.

 

_ They won't miss you, _ he tells himself fiercely.   _ They'll miss a lie.  They'll miss a human that doesn't even exist. _

 

His chest hurts.  When Cindy reaches across and touches his hand, it feels warm and hollow, gentle and somehow sharp.  

 

It helps.

 

\---

 

The day before Ignis is supposed to pick him up, N H-01987 0006-0204 feels jittery, like he has too much energy stored in him.  He tries to use it up, runs laps around Hammerhead, taps his feet. The feeling persists.

 

“Excited?” Paw-Paw asks.  He's half under a car in the garage.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is sitting nearby, shaking, tapping his fingers.  “Socket wrench.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 passes him the socket wrench.  He knew most of the tools from the facility, and only needed to categorize a few unfamiliar ones in Hammerhead.  Now he can help Paw-Paw by fetching tools. It feels nice.

 

He's a little confused though.  Cindy is usually in the garage around this time.  He's been looking around but can't see her anywhere.

 

Paw-Paw grumbles as he fixes something.  He glances at N H-01987 0006-0204, and must see him looking around, because he says, “Cindy’s in her room, y’know.  She's gotta work fast to get your present done on time.”

 

_ Present? _  N H-01987 0006-0204 only knows  _ present _ in the context of  _ present arms _ or to  _ present himself to his superior officer _ .  He's feeling off and jittery, and he's only really, purposely gestured for Noct, but suddenly he wants to.

 

He hops up.  Clicks his heels together, stands ramrod straight, arms loose at his sides-  _ attention _ \- and then he slides his legs apart, knees slightly bent, arms clasped at the small of his back. _  At rest _ .

 

Paw-Paw doesn't notice for a second, then he slides out from under the car and peers at N H-01987 0006-0204.  He looks amused.

 

“Whatcha doing?” He asks.

 

_ Present to superior officer _ , N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks but doesn't say.  His face wants to stretch into the pleased expression, so he breaks form, bouncing on his toes while he smiles at Paw-Paw.

 

Paw-Paw’s eyes are crinkled at the corners, but then an expression steals over his face- confusion, or dawning realization, or- something.  His eyes sweep over N H-01987 0006-0204, and suddenly N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes: does he look like an MT?

 

“Hey,” Paw-Paw says.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s stomach is churning, and he drops the stance, swings his arms by his sides, bounces on his toes, anything to- to not look like what he is.  Paw-Paw twists so he’s looking at N H-01987 0006-0204 right-side up, and then pauses, frowning.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  Stares.

 

Paw-Paw stares back, his forehead furrowed.

 

“It’s okay,” he says.  “It’s alright. Did you- have you seen a lot of soldiers?”

 

Oh.  That’s a good explanation.  N H-01987 0006-0204 relaxes.  He hasn’t seen a lot of soldiers, but a lot of his imported data is on soldiers, and part of that is their behavior and activities.  He knows, factually, that soldiers will sometimes stand at attention or at rest. He also knows that this is an opportune time to snipe them, because they are standing still for long periods of time.

 

Paw-Paw is still frowning, though, looking at him.  N H-01987 0006-0204 fidgets.

 

“Paw-Paw,” Cindy’s voice howls from the entrance.  It breaks the silence between them, and suddenly she’s come around the corner.  She glances at N H-01987 0006-0204, says, “Oh, hi darlin’,” and then she’s saying, “Where we keep the needles?  I broke another one.”

 

“Oh, for the love of the Six, girl.” Paw-Paw says, and then he says, “In the second desk drawer.”

 

“Awesome.”  Cindy leaves, ruffling N H-01987 0006-0204’s hair as she goes.  It’s warm and nice. She’s back across the garage, closing the little sidedoor as she goes, and then she’s gone.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares after her.  Looks back at Paw-Paw.

 

Paw-Paw is shaking his head, slowly.  He slides back under the car, fumbles.  N H-01987 0006-0204 feels strange and awkward, wonders if Paw-Paw’s going to ask questions again.

 

“Here,” Paw-Paw mumbles.  He’s handing the socket wrench back.  

 

Oh.  N H-01987 0006-0204 takes it.  Puts it away. Comes back.

 

Paw-Paw keeps working.  N H-01987 0006-0204 helps.

 

He doesn’t ask again.

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hardly sleeps that night.  He feels light and strange, beneath the alien orange nightlights.  He feels wide awake. The blanket feels itchy and hot, but when he kicks it off, it feels cold.

 

When he does sleep, he dozes.  It’s not deep enough to dream.

 

\---

 

He’s awake early.  He feels on edge and also somehow bright, like he’s balanced on a knife blade.

 

He rolls up his wire for easy transportation, and that’s all he has.  He paces, fiddles with his fingers. When Paw-Paw wakes up and makes breakfast, N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to eat, has to stop, tries again.  He has to walk around the dining room table a couple of times, or he’ll vibrate right out of his skin.

 

Paw-Paw and Cindy are both gentle with him.  When he goes to watch the road, even though he knows Iggy won’t come for another hour, they come and join him and talk to each other and a little to him.  It helps.

 

Eventually a gray speck appears in the distance, grows into a car.  It’s not the sleek car from before, but Paw-Paw says, “Oh, there he is,” so N H-01987 0006-0204 discerns that this must be Iggy’s car.

 

“Shit,” Cindy says, and then- “I’ll be right back.  Don’t leave just yet.”

 

He’s not leaving just yet.  Iggy hasn’t even arrived. But Cindy is jogging back towards the house, and his head is processing fast and inaccurate, and he finds himself focusing on the approaching car instead of worrying about it.

 

Iggy pulls into the parking lot and Paw-Paw heaves himself up to his feet, grumbling.  N H-01987 0006-0204 follows, fast and bouncy, and trails after Iggy as he parks, and opens the door, and- yes that is Iggy.  His glasses glitter in the sunlight, but for once it doesn’t make N H-01987 0006-0204 feel off.

 

“Ah, hello,” he says, spotting N H-01987 0006-0204.  “Hello, Mr. Sophiar-”

 

“Cid,” Paw-Paw says.

 

“Mr. Sophiar,” Iggy says.  Paw-Paw scowls. “Do you have any luggage?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what luggage is.  He hesitates, looks at Paw-Paw.

 

“Your wire,” Paw-Paw says.  He looks pained. 

 

“Ah-” Iggy says, frowning, but N H-01987 0006-0204’s leaving to get his wire.  He doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation, running around the edge of the garage.

 

The wire is coiled neatly.  It looks like thorns in the sunlight, bronze and fiery colored, stained with rust and blood.  It looks pleasing, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks. And then he looks past the wire at the view of the back concrete step and the blue-edged barrier and the yellow grass beyond, and suddenly he realizes that he’s not going to see it for - however long “a little while,” is.

 

He doesn’t think long about it.  He runs and gets the wire, runs back.

 

Cindy gets back at the same time, waving him down.  Iggy takes the wire from him gingerly. N H-01987 0006-0204 feels jittery about handing the wire over, but he feels jittery anyway, and Iggy only puts it in the storage area in the back of the car.

 

“I got something for you,” Cindy says, and then holds out something wrapped in brown paper.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at her, confused.  Then- oh. It’s for him. A resource?

 

He takes it.  Holds it. Does it accomplish something?  Maybe it’s a mechanical thing, like a long-range sensor, but wrapped in paper.  It feels different than that, flexible. Strange.

 

“Are you gonna unwrap it or you gonna stare at it all day?” Cindy asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Oh. He turns the object over in his hands, finds the edge of the brown paper.  Worries it free. Starts unrolling it, careful not to tear anything, and it’s-

 

He doesn’t understand what it is for a second.  And then he does: it’s a pair of gloves, the fingers missing, with an opening in the back and a strap around the wrist.

 

“See, I figured,” Cindy says, leaning over his shoulder, “That you’ll need your fingertips for like, the small things with the wire, but that should protect your palms and a bit of your fingers.  It’s leather, it’s tough, and there’s straps so you can adjust as you grow and fill out your skinny little wrists.”

 

Her fingers circle his wrist.  They can touch while only barely brushing his skin.

 

“Whatcha think?” Cindy asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels weird.  His chest feels strange. He does not require the protective measure against the wire, as the injuries it causes are not debilitating, but- the gloves are soft, supple.  He wants to continue touching them. They are a resource, and furthermore took up Cindy’s time and labor, and he shouldn’t-

 

It wouldn’t matter, he realizes.  If he didn’t use them, Cindy had already put her time into them.  Not using them would be wasting Cindy’s time and work.

 

He can wear them.  It would be disrespectful to Cindy  _ not _ to wear them.

 

His eyes are leaking, he realizes.  Cindy leans against him, soft, puts an arm around his shoulders, while his eyes leak and burn.

 

“Here,” she says, and then she takes a glove and picks up one of his hands.  She slides the glove on, her fingers gentle, and does up the strap so it rests, comfortable, on his skin.

 

It feels good.  Not just on his hand, but in his chest, a warm feeling.  N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows, takes the other glove. Puts it on.  Adjusts the strap.

 

“There ya go,” Cindy says softly.  “You like ‘em?”

 

He does like them.  He likes them a lot.  And he thinks of the thing people did, where they put their arms around his shoulders, and suddenly his chest is so bright it feels like it’ll burst with nowhere to go, and he wants to- he wants-

 

He throws his arms around Cindy’s shoulders, leaning against her.  She catches his weight, making a surprised noise, and then her arms are around his waist and back, holding him.

 

“Hey, woah,” she says, and her breath huffs against his cheek, half-laughing, “You’re alright, darling, you’re wonderful.”

 

He’s not wonderful.  He’s an MT. Cindy, though, Cindy is wonderful, light and kind and good.  She lets him keep his arms around her for several minutes, rocking him back and forth, before she gently pats his back and lets him go.  He takes this as the signal to stop.

 

“We’ll miss you, darling,” Cindy says.

 

Yes.  He’ll miss them too.

 

Paw-Paw grumbles, “Alright, c’mere,” and also wraps his arms around N H-01987 0006-0204.  He leans into it, Paw-Paw’s boney wire-rack torso digging into his side. It’s good, but also sad.  He feels warm and empty, both, his eyes burning but his chest light.

 

Paw-Paw lets him go.  N H-01987 0006-0204 wants to linger.

 

“Ready?” Iggy asks him.  Paw-Paw clasps his shoulder.  Cindy presses her face briefly to his cheek, making an unfamiliar noise with her mouth against his cheekbone.

 

He should be ready.  His wire is in the car.  His feet feel heavy and reluctant to move.

 

But he should be ready.  He crosses to the other side, opens the side door.  Sits like a human.

 

Iggy and Paw-Paw exchange a few words.  Cindy smiles at him from through the window.  N H-01987 0006-0204 feels good and bad, happy and strange.  When she waves at him, he raises his hand, moves it side-to-side, copying her.  She lights up.

 

Then Iggy is getting in the car.  He takes something from the side of the car and drags a pair of straps across himself, one diagonally across his chest and one low across his waist.  N H-01987 0006-0204, watching, finds a similar pair on his side of the car, and he copies Iggy, finding the slot where the metal part clicks into place.

 

“It’s good to see you again,” Iggy says.  “You may lean the seat back, if you like.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what that means.  His focus is back on Cindy and Paw-Paw as they watch him through the window.  It’s hard to look away from their faces, despite no physical malfunction preventing him.

 

Then Iggy is calling goodbye out the window, and then the car is rumbling to life beneath them, and Cindy and Paw-Paw are calling goodbye as the car starts to move, away from them and towards the road.

 

They pull out of the parking lot.  N H-01987 0006-0204 watches as Cindy and Paw-Paw shrink, waving, as they start down the road.

 

He watches for a long time.

 

\---

 

After awhile he can no longer see Hammerhead.  He turns forward again, watches the bright blue sky and yellow land.  His chest hurts.

 

Iggy hums, glancing at him.  At some point he directs N H-01987 0006-0204 to the radio, which appears to be a one-way communicative device dedicated purely to playing music. N H-01987 0006-0204 spends half an hour, fascinated, testing the different dials and buttons.  It’s distracting. It helps.

 

Then, slowly, a gleaming line appears on the horizon.  It is bright and burning in N H-01987 0006-0204’s eyes, edged with blue fire.  It grows closer and taller, looming, and N H-01987 0006-0204’s stomach starts to sink as the color grows more familiar.

 

It’s a barrier.  It’s the biggest barrier he’s ever seen, looming high and inevitable above them, all metal and magic, rippling with energy, ready to tear him to pieces.

 

He’s passed barriers before, he reasons with himself.  He is less daemon now than he has ever been. 

 

He thinks about vomiting black blood in Iggy’s car, and feels ill.

 

\---

 

“Ah, do not worry,” Iggy says.  “We’ll go in through the government business gate.  It’ll hardly be five minutes.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t sure what Iggy thinks he’s worried about.  Iggy thinks he’s human, and can’t know that N H-01987 0006-0204 is worried about the barrier ejecting his daemon blood.

 

“There is something else, before we get there,” Iggy says. “You have a patron that is providing for your stay.  It’s not any issue, of course, and if he stops extending his patronage I of course will be happy to put you up, but for now Lord Lucis Calum is providing for you.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 digests this.  Someone is providing him with resources.  He wonders if this is a normal human behavior.  Cindy and Paw-Paw had provided him with resources, and now someone else was doing it.  Maybe he would expect labor in return. N H-01987 0006-0204 would be more comfortable with that.  He would know what to expect.

 

“He would like to meet you when you arrive,” Iggy says.  “A formality, you understand. He has been notified of your condition and will not expect you to speak.  You will merely be having tea with him.” Iggy flicks his eyes sideways at him. His expression seems odd.  Concerned, maybe. “He is rather eccentric, but he will not cause you any harm.”

 

Alright.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what tea is, exactly, except that Aranea calls it “gross” and insists on something else called beer.  He tentatively thinks it’s a kind of food.

 

“I’ll come by later and help you get settled,” Iggy says.  “Tonight I have to attend to his Highness, but I have some free time tomorrow to assist.  And I will leave my number in case you require anything.”

 

None of that makes any sense to N H-01987 0006-0204, but he’s distracted by the barrier looming closer and closer.  They’re alongside it now, driving with it at their right side, swallowing up all the window and casting a shadow that extends far to their left, even at midday.  He can  _ feel _ it, electric, prickling on his skin.

 

“His Highness is looking forward to seeing you,” Iggy says.

 

He must have expected a response, because after a moment he glances at N H-01987 0006-0204 again.  He must see the way he’s looking at the barrier, because he says, “Ah- yes, it is rather overwhelming at first.  Don’t worry, you get used to it.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hopes he will.  He also hopes he survives it. He thinks he can, if he concentrates his processing power on interior repair.

 

They’re approaching an opening, and then the car is turning.  The crackling of the magic grows inside N H-01987 0006-0204’s skin, bordering on painful.

 

“Here we are,” Iggy murmurs, and then he rolls down his window.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s skin is prickling, his hairs standing on end.  He feels itchy. He wants to scratch something beneath his skin. He makes himself hold still, starts delegating power to attend to the spiky feeling that’s growing in him, like thorns in his blood, the daemon hurting, frightened, trying to get out.

 

Iggy leans out, speaks.  He’s talking to another person, N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes.  He didn’t notice. It’s hard to think. His thoughts are scattered and slow.  There’s a humming in his ears, and deeper than that, rumbling beneath his ribs.

 

He leans his head back against the seat.  Tries to breathe.

 

Iggy’s leaning back in now, starting the car again.  They move forward and N H-01987 0006-0204 feels something spark, like when a limb falls asleep but multiplied, and spread through his whole body.  And then the gate opens, the wall coming up to swallow them-

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 bites down on his tongue.

 

\---

 

Throughout the tunnel, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks: Aranea.  I must not make noise.

 

It feels like the electroshock corrections at the facility.  It feels like the barbed wire has wormed under his skin and is now trying desperately to get out.  It feels like a tortured animal beneath his skin.

 

He feels damp along his spine, and then he feels burning.  The light is faint, but he can see blood welling up beneath his wrist band.  His ports are bleeding.

 

Iggy must not see.  He makes himself move.  It feels like the air is full of nails.  He twitches, slow, painful. Wipes his arm against his shirt.

 

Another gate is opening ahead of them, spilling in yellow sunlight.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is intensely grateful.

 

They drive into the sun.

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 drifts for awhile.  His body feels wrung out. His ports are still bleeding sluggishly, dribbling corrosive blood down his back, his chest.  His wrists hurt. There are two burning trails down his neck, from the ports behind his ears, and he wipes them as quietly and quickly as he can.  He doesn't throw up, but he wants to.

 

He doesn't think Iggy notices.  Iggy seems preoccupied, navigating the car.  They're not surrounded by wilderness anymore, and seem to be in a complex structure made of concrete and metal, buildings arranged geometrically for maximum space.  Maybe they're in a fort.

 

His head aches.  He aches all over, actually, his bones pinched and fragile.

 

He doesn't process everything he should.  The world feels like it's coming in and out of focus.

 

At some point his door opens.  Iggy's stopped the car, he realizes, and is asking him to come along, and if he's quite alright.

 

He stumbles to his feet.  He feels strange and clumsy.

 

“You're pale,” Iggy says.  He sounds concerned. His hand is on N H-01987 0006-0204’s elbow, steadying him.  “I would try to delay Lord Lucis Calum, but he was very insistent. Let's at least see if we can't get you into some shade.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hears Iggy but doesn't really process anything he's saying.  They're on steps now. He stumbles up, following Iggy's lead.

 

Then they're inside, walking along, and Iggy is saying, “I'm unsure if you've had tea before, but it's polite to take a few sips regardless.  There should be water there, if it's not to your taste.”

 

The floor is cool stone beneath his feet, white and laced with gray.  He can feel the coolness of it crawling up his feet, the soles of his boots thin.

 

… his head is clearer, he realizes.  The magic from the barrier is still in the air, electric, but it feels- repressed.  

 

He's thinking about the scourge, suddenly.  Why is he thinking about the scourge?

 

“Here we are,” Iggy says, stopping.  There's a door. He turns N H-01987 0006-0204 gently, puts a hand on his shoulder.  He peers at him, his brow furrowed.

 

“Are you sure you're alright?” He asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 isn't allowed to speak.  He blinks at him.

 

Iggy’s mouth slants in a way N H-01987 0006-0204 can't read, but he lets him go.  “Very well. The servants have been instructed to contact me if you appear distressed.  I can't promise I'll come right away, but I will attend to you as soon as reasonably possible.”

 

He nudges N H-01987 0006-0204 gently towards the door.  N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes he's supposed to go through it, so he reaches for the doorknob and pushes it open.

 

His blood is calm.  His blood is pleased.  His head feels suddenly dizzy, like he might float away.  The door shuts behind him, and he’s trapped.

 

Aranea, he thinks, but he doesn't know why.

 

“Come in,” a voice says.  It is oily. “Oh good, I did hope you'd make it.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stumbles in.  He doesn't even see the room. He just sees a flash of something, red-brown hair, an oilslick sheen.

 

The man who turned Aranea sits splayed in a chair like a lion in the sun.  He smiles at N H-01987 0006-0204, satisfied, like a cat with a bird in its teeth.

 

“Hello, dear one,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its ya boi ardyn


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is choking, what probably counts as psychological torture, and some self-harm in this chapter. Please be safe.

N H-01987 0006-0204 is ill.  He is malfunctioning. But, no, his stomach is settled and calm, and his blood and smooth and easy.  It is his head, his head, that is floating.

 

“Come closer, dear one,” the man says.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stumbles closer.  He feels disconnected from his body, like he’s floating above it watching it move.  He doesn’t even realize his feet are walking until he’s barely ten feet away from the man and something in head starts screaming _too close too close too close._

 

The man leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees.  He seems grounded, like he’s been sunk into the real world, like he somehow has more gravity than he should.  He’s smiling, pleased, and the line of it makes all the hairs on N H-01987 0006-0204’s neck stand on end.

 

“Sit,” the man says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s legs give out from under him.  He has no control over it.

 

The man’s smile tilts, and then his face follows it, disconcerting.

 

He’s in a chair.  It’s different from the chairs in Hammerhead; soft and supple in the same way as Cindy’s gloves.  His body is comfortable, but his head is terrified. How is that possible? Every time he’s been afraid his body has malfunctioned too, but now he’s trapped behind his face while his heartbeat is steady and calm.

 

“That would be my fault, dear one,” the man says.

 

His answer sounds like he _heard_ N H-01987 0006-0204, like he spoke out loud.  N H-01987 0006-0204 wants to jerk, to shake. He feels the fear spike that would normally make him move, but his body remains lax and still.  What, what, what?

 

“Oh dearest,” the man says, and he’s looking at N H-01987 0006-0204 like Aranea used to look at animals when they did something unusual, like how the scientists sometimes looked at him, fascination and amusement.  “You’re so _frightened._  Don’t be afraid, dear one.  I can hear you, if you wish to speak.”

 

And N H-01987 0006-0204- he almost does.  He feels his mouth open to say _how did you know,_ because he’s so confused and the man had _known_ what he had been thinking, like Noct but different, because the man had responded like he had heard him, and he draws breath to speak-

 

 _Aranea_ , he thinks, and he slams his mouth shut, biting his tongue.

 

The man laughs, his eyes crinkling.  He could almost appear kindly in the right light.  In this light, he just looks delighted.

 

“Oh, you _are_ precious,” he says.  “Sniffing out traps, even when they’re made of words.  Very well. You’re right, little bird, I hear what you think.”

 

How, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks, muzzily, and then he tries deliberately, like speaking without making the words: _How?_

 

“Mm,” the man says, leaning back.  His eyes are alight. N H-01987 0006-0204 feels like he’s on the verge of drowning.  “So _curious_.  Nothing is free, dear one, not even words, and I’m already giving you so much.”

 

What?  What is he giving him?  What did Iggy say- the man is providing for him?

 

And then a horrible thought occurs to him.  When N H-01987 0006-0204 had the malfunction, when Cindy and Paw-Paw tried to take the wire away, did he make a noise- N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to slam that line of thought down, but the man’s eyes are crinkling at the corners.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks of tiny sob that crawled out of his throat when he was half out of his mind with fear, and knows.

 

“Dearest one,” the man says.  And then he reaches forward and N H-01987 0006-0204 wants to flinch back but _can’t-_ accept he’s only reaching for an open box set on the table between them.  He’s drawing out two small bags, made of cloth so thin it’s sheer, pulled shut with string, with something dark inside them.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hasn’t taken in the room, can barely concentrate, but in front of him he sees: a pair of cups, thin and fine and shaped like scoops, set on two plates.  A kettle made of some reddish metal. A lacey cloth covering the wood of the table. It is all shining and fine and everything is delicate, like he could easily break them if only he could move.

 

“Oh dearest one,” the man says, putting a bag in his cup, draping the string over the side.  His eyes are still on N H-01987 0006-0204, glittering and amused. He puts another one in N H-01987 0006-0204’s.  “Yes, I do know about that.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s world crashes and burns.  He wants to cry. It is only his body’s unnatural calm that prevents him from shaking right out of his skin.

 

“Shh,” the man croons.  “Oh, dear one, dearheart, little bird.  Do not fear. I am nothing if not forgiving.”

 

Aranea, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks, Aranea, Aranea, no-

 

“Your dearest Aranea is not lost to you yet,” the man says, gentle and purring.  “Oh _dearheart_ , it would not be an interesting deal if you broke it in the first month.  No, dear one, we all make trespasses.”

 

 _Not lost_ , N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks, but he is still drowning in terror.

 

“I will allow you to make up your mistakes,” the man yes, yes, the relief that wells up in N H-01987 0006-0204 makes him almost ill. “And I will provide for you, little bird.  If left to your own devices, the little advisor would whisk you off to doctors to let them pick apart your head and paste over all your _delightful_ little cracks, and we just can’t allow that.  You’re so pretty, so _interesting_ broken.”

 

 _Light off of metal_ , N H-01987 0006-0204 sees, his vision malfunctioning for a second, just a second.  The little advisor- who the little advisor? How could he avoid them?

 

“You know him, dear one,” the man says, and then there’s-

 

There’s-

 

A shuffling sensation, like when he sorted through his digital memory, but throughout all of his head, but it’s not _him_ doing it, and yet his whole body goes boneless and relaxed and the daemon blood goes purring and pleased under the pressure of- something-

 

It’s like his daemon blood, but alien.   _Someone else._  

 

 _“Iggy,”_ the man cooes, “Oh you call him by my nephew’s little pet name.  That is _darling.”_

 

The- _the daemon thing is still in his head-_ and then it withdraws, leaving N H-01987 0006-0204 reeling in the absence of it.  He wants to cry. He is ashamed of crying, of malfunctioning, but now that he can’t do it there’s a tiny, helpless thing in him that is screaming, begging to cry and he _can’t_.

 

He has to focus.  Aranea is not lost yet, but his head is dizzy and floating and he’s trapped in his own body and it’s so hard to keep a coherent line of thought.

 

He can’t move.  He can’t even cry.  The alien daemon blood, something about it, the feeling of it, maybe, rotten and sweet, remains heavy and oppressive in the air.

 

“Iggy wants to _fix_ you,” the man says, and he’s tilting his head, his eyes wide with what would be sorrow on any other face.  “To hand you over to the doctors, so they can see where you went _wrong.”_

 

No, N H-01987 0006-0204 chokes, no, no, no, Iggy wouldn’t, Iggy fed him good food, he wouldn’t- he wouldn’t-

 

But why wouldn’t he?  If things were broken they were fixed.  Stuck doors, malfunctioning pods. And if they couldn’t be fixed, they were decommissioned.  That was how it _worked_.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks of skewers beneath the stars.  Tries to choke the thoughts back, doesn’t want to share it with the man, doesn’t want him to know.

 

“Oh little bird,” the man coos, gentle, “I know what it is to be betrayed, to have nothing and no one.  I _understand_ .  I will watch over you, small one, _dearest_ one.  I will never rob you of your fair chances, not like your dear Noct would do if he could, not like your dearest Paw-Paw almost did.”

 

How did he know Paw-Paw? He knew about the tiny sound, when they tried to take the wire away.  N H-01987 0006-0204 has had his digital memory read before, at the facility, but never his whole head, never the parts he tucked away in his biological memory, and now- now there is _nothing_ he can keep.

 

“Oh dear one,” the man says, sighing.  He picks up the red-metal kettle, pours water over the little bags in the cups.  It steams, smells faintly flowery, sickly-sweet. “Dearest. It’s almost as though you don’t trust me.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows _trust_ to mean something like _a reliable source._ Iggy said the man would provide him with food and shelter, so he must be a reliable source, but N H-01987 0006-0204 cannot move and something in him is screaming to get away and the image of Aranea’s back, bristling with black feathers, is burning in him.

 

“But we must talk about your trespasses,” the man says, putting the kettle down.  The liquid in N H-01987 0006-0204’s cup is golden-brown and clear, steaming. “And how you are to make it up to me.”

 

The man is smiling at him again.  N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t move, and he can’t tremble.

 

“First,” the man purrs, “For keeping you out of the doctors’ hands, for feeding and sheltering you, for keeping you safe.”

 

The man hums, tilts his head, thinking.  And then his eyes flick down to N H-01987 0006-0204’s wrist, where the leather bracelet covers his designation.

 

“Yes, that will do,” the man says.

 

And then the daemon feeling in the air grows suddenly heavier and thicker, settling like a solid thing on N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulders.  His breath catches in his throat, the closest he can come to crying.

 

It’s gone just as quickly, and the man is holding a bracelet.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is reeling, but- did the man pull it out of nowhere?  What happened? It is an inch wide all the way around, made of something black and supple.  It has silvery patterns on it, gleaming in the light, and the man holds it up at N H-01987 0006-0204’s eye level.

 

The pattern becomes clear: it’s the right half of a skull.  Where the left half would be, six gleaming feathers fan outward.  There are other patterns around the edge, gleaming curls and lines, but they appear abstract.

 

“It is my crest,” the man says, his voice almost morose.  “I am not in line for the throne, so I cannot gift you with the full skull, but I am allowed a part of it, to honor the family blood.”

 

There is something in his voice, something bitter.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s head is clouded, and he cannot make it out, and he doesn’t get time to, because then the man twitches the bracelet around so N H-01987 0006-0204 can see the inside rim.

 

 _Property of the Crown_ is stitched on the inside side with gleaming silver thread, followed by _A. I._

 

“My dearest,” the man says, and his voice is back to oily, amused.  “You will wear this to cover your designation. You will never take it off.  You need not fear, it will always be dry and clean. If you fiddle with it, if you loosen it, if you remove it, I will know, and I will make Aranea’s blood boil in her until she dies.  Do you understand?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is drowning in fear.  He needs to move. He needs to vomit, and he can’t.  Pulling himself together to keep a bare line of sensible thought is a constant fight.  He thinks, _I understand_.

 

“Good,” the man coos, and then he reaches forward and N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks _too close too close too close-_

 

The man touches his bracelet.  It dissolves into red sparks, and then into nothing.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wants to cry.  His barcode, stark black lines, stands out against the white flesh of his wrist, hidden so long from the sun.  His wrist port gleams in the light, the scar around it puckered and thick.

 

And then the man is clasping the other bracelet around his wrist, and it’s pulling tight against his skin.  The man buckles it shut, clasping it one last time before drawing away.

 

It is heavy and firm on his wrist.  The feathers gleam at him in the light.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is dizzy with fear.

 

“And for the sound,” the man murmurs, his chin in his hands, thoughtful.  “The little sob, at Paw-Paw’s. Hm.”

 

 _Please,_ N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks, _Please let it be something I can do._

 

The man looks at him, smirking.  N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t move, can’t glance away.

 

“Hm,” the man says, and then he tilts his head, and N H-01987 0006-0204 can move again.

 

It feels like trying to move through clay, every twitch a struggle.  He can’t raise his arms or legs. His fingers can barely twitch. But he can drag in deeper breaths of air, painfully slowly, and something starts burning in his eyes.

 

“A little game,” the man murmurs, and then he’s picking up N H-01987 0006-0204’s cup with long, graceful fingers, and then he’s coming closer, closer, his hand reaching out, and N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks _no-_

 

His fingers touch N H-01987 0006-0204’s cheek.  It feels oily, it feels too cold and too hot, it feels like something rotten.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is crying now, warmth dribbling down his cheeks, his nose starting to clog, and he can’t move his face away _he can’t move that much he can’t move away he can’t and the man is touching him-_

 

And the man is tilting his head up, gentle fingers on his chin.  His eyes are gleaming, focused with laser intent on N H-01987 0006-0204’s mouth.

 

“If you swallow any,” the man says, softly, “We will start again.”

 

He holds the cup of liquid up to N H-01987 0006-0204’s mouth and pinches it open.

 

\---

 

Later, N H-01987 0006-0204 will remember very little of what happened.  He will remember a terror so all consuming he is choking on it. He will remember trying to close his mouth, failing.  He will remember the heat, searing in his throat, burning. He will remember the man’s fingers, digging into his jaw.

 

He will remember slopping it out of his mouth, trying desperately not to swallow any, choking and coughing, his body too lax to throw up, making small, aborted heaving movements.  He will remember getting it into his lungs, scalding and unable to breathe, and gray lapping at the edges of his vision.

 

He thinks he swallows some once, because the man tsks and refills the cup, even as N H-01987 0006-0204 begs _please please no don’t please_ , and then takes his jaw again, inevitable.

 

He remembers thinking of Aranea.  He remembers thinking of drowning.

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 comes back to himself in small increments.  He twitches his hands, his arms and legs, reaches up to touch his throat.

 

He can move.

 

He sits up, fast, both hands shooting to his mouth.  His throat burns, but the man is gone, and no one is forcing anything down.  His eyes flick down to check his hands, unsure if any of it had really happened, but yes, the bracelet is on his wrist, gleaming silver lines and dark leather, as solid on his wrist as a restraint.  Looking at it makes him feel ill.

 

His hands come up of their volition.  He’s shaking. The bracelet is an impossibly dark thing in the corner of his eye, like a hole, or like a piece of his wrist has been removed.  He feels jittering and tense and weak, like any second now he’ll shake apart.

 

His fingers dig into his collarbone.  His vision in graying, sparking at the edges.  His lungs feel like an iron clamp is holding his ribs, hard to breathe.

 

He has to- where is he.  Is he safe?

 

He’s in a different room.  He’s lying on something incredibly soft, and when he twists to look at it, he recognizes it as something like the guards’ cots at the facility, but larger and plumper.  He’s still wearing his pants and shirt, but his boots have been taken off his feet. There’s a large window letting in cool, evening light taking up a large portion of one wall.  There’s what appears to be a storage unit, made of wood and somewhat elaborate, and a shelf in a similar style. There’s a few things on the storage unit that he doesn’t understand.

 

There are two doors.  One is larger, on the wall to his right, and closed.  One is across the room, and open, a slice of white tile on the other side.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels ill.  The feeling wells up in him, sudden and painful, and he sits, shaking, staring at the tile, because the man said- the man said no doctors-

 

He’s going to vomit.  He jerks, leans over, scrabbles at one of the drawers of the storage unit with uncooperative muscles.  Opens it, finds it empty.

 

He pukes until his insides feel scraped and raw.  His eyes are leaking. His nose is leaking. His vomit is black and thick and grainy, like tar and sand, pooled in the bottom of the empty drawer.  He feels bleary and shaky and on the edge of fainting.

 

He finds himself lying back down, still half twisted over the edge of the cot.  He should get up. The man said no doctors, so he should find out what the tiled room is.  He should find out _where_ he is.  He should find the wire.

 

The thing- the large cot is soft and enveloping.  It feels like sinking into the couch, but better, smoother.

 

He drifts.

 

\---

 

He dreams:

 

They are in a valley, far enough from the capital that the smooth snow plains have broken up into jagged mountains and canyons.  Protected on both sides by towering walls of rock, it is warm enough that most of the snow has melted away, and everything is dark brown and green, trees soaring into the air.

 

It is warmer than N H-01987 0006-0204 is used to, and also darker, without the constant reflection of light off the snow.  Now that there is some shade and less sunlight, Aranea has been insistent on traveling at least part time during the day, so they rise around 20:00 hours and walk until 11:00.  This eats up most of the cool morning hours before the sun starts blazing in earnest.

 

The sunsickness rises in the morning and gets progressively worse towards noon, so by the time they slow for their resting period N H-01987 0006-0204 is usually vomiting.  Aranea always smacks his back and makes sure he drinks water. Her mouth always twists a little when he does this, even though she is an MT and shouldn’t make expressions. N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders, sometimes, if she has similar malfunctions to him.

 

He explains that it is the sunsickness.  She says she knows.

 

Sometime during one of the late morning hours, nearing the end of their travel period, they find a vast pool of water, like a spill or when a sink was filled, but larger than a field.  Sunlight glitters off it’s surface, dazzling, and under the sky it appears blue instead of clear. It is strange and large and makes N H-01987 0006-0204 feel odd, light in his chest, somehow small.

 

“Nice,” Aranea says, and then, because she always seems to know when he needs clarification, “It’s a lake.  A bunch of water all in one place. They occur naturally, when a river pours into a flat area, or if it rains in the same spot for a long time.”

 

Oh.  He tilts his head, keeps looking at it.  Tilts it the other way. He understands now.  It is a result of physics, an occurrence. It was not created for any particular purpose, but it could be a resource.

 

“You look like a bird when you do that,” Aranea says.  She stretches, the whole long line of her, and then looks at him with a sideways flick of her eyes.  “Did your gene group ever learn to swim?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows what _swim_ is.  To propel one’s body through water.  But his group hasn’t been taught it, not even theory.  N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks this is because it would be a waste of resources; MT armor was too heavy to swim effectively.

 

“No,” he says.

 

“Well, fuck that,” Aranea says.  “C’mon, robo-boy.”

 

She stalks down to the edge of water, where the ground turns shiny and smooth.  N H-01987 0006-0204 follows, the texture changing beneath his feet, and realizes that the ground is made up of fine particles- sand- packed together and held in place by water.

 

Aranea takes the backpack and slings it up high on a branch, out of reach.  And then she’s taking her boots off and stripping down. N H-01987 0006-0204 copies her, the air cool on his skin.  The tender part of his belly and thighs is stark white, and has only been exposed to sunlight a few times before. Where the sunlight shines through the pine trees, dappling patterns on his skin, it prickles and burns.

 

Aranea is tanner than he is, with less freckles.  Her ports are an older model; bulkier along her spine.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s lie almost flat, but Aranea’s protrudes, like a boar’s spine ridge, and N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders if carrying the backpack is uncomfortable for her.

 

Aranea starts wading into the water.  It is bright and blue further out, but close to the shore it is dark and mossy brown-green, and Aranea’s silver hair and ports contrast with it in a way that is pleasing, somehow, to look at.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 touches the water, cautious.  It is cold, but harmless, so he steps in. It is cool and pleasant on his feet, surprisingly so, and for a moment he just stands there as it leeches away the heat and swelling from traveling.

 

“C’mon, you,” Aranea calls, so he wades further in.

 

They stop where the water reaches N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest.  Aranea is taller than him, and the water only reaches her belly.  Something about this makes N H-01987 0006-0204 feel strange, a want to be taller, even though he knows his height is beyond his control.

 

“First thing you’re gonna learn is dead man’s float,” Aranea says.  She puts a hand on N H-01987 0006-0204’s back. “Lean back. Let your feet rise.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 leans back until his head almost touches the water.  He can feel it tickling his hair. But his feet remain firmly planted, and his stomach churns.  He doesn’t want- what if he sinks? He can’t breathe underwater.

 

Aranea told him to let his feet rise.  He tries to let them. They remain still.

 

“Can you lift your feet or are you frozen up?” Aranea says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 tires to get his mouth in working order.  Says, “I can do it.”

 

“Yeah, I know.  Want me to do it anyway?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 considers.  He remembers from experience that he couldn’t put the restraints on by himself when visiting the doctors.  They said this was a fairly common and small malfunction, and they did it themselves without punishing him.  The actions that made his brain malfunction and overproduce fear were easier to accomplish when someone else did them, and all he had to do was let it happen.

 

It would easier.  He wants to say yes, but the words get stuck in his throat, so he nods his head, jerkily.

 

Aranea says, “Alright,” and then something presses against N H-01987 0006-0204’s legs, raising them off the ground.

 

He manages to be still for a moment, but then he jolts, jerks, his heart leaping into his throat, and then he flails.  What if he sinks? What if he _sinks?_  There is nothing supporting him except Aranea’s hand, solid on his back, and his muscles are iron-hard with fear-

 

“Relax,” Aranea says.  And then her other hand comes up and supports the back of his neck, keeping his head firmly above water.  “I’m not gonna drop you.”

 

Aranea won’t drop him.  That is good. He tries to be still, and ends up trembling, his muscles locked into place so stiffly that they vibrate.  He knows Aranea won’t drop him, but- but- his body is uncooperative. He wrestles with it.

 

Aranea doesn’t move.  She doesn’t stop supporting him.  Above them, the sky is bright and blue, clouds drifting, and it is eats up all of N H-01987 0006-0204’s vision, except for Aranea’s shaded face and the bright silver of her hair.

 

It appears vaster, somehow, than when he’s upright.  Maybe it’s because now it’s all he can see, but N H-01987 0006-0204 feels strange, and small.

 

Gradually his muscles loosen.  The water covers his ears, makes the world muted, quieter, but his mouth and nose remain above water, and breathing is easy.  His face never sinks beneath the surface. Aranea never drops him.

 

He feels strangely disconnected from the world, like only Aranea’s hands on his back are keeping him tethered.  He relaxes, slowly, floats in the water without struggling.

 

He feels calm.

 

Later, Aranea will teach him how to float by himself, without help.  It will involve a lot of flailing and getting water in his mouth. He does sink several times, but Aranea always hauls him upright, and then she teaches him to flip in the water so his feet touch the ground and he can push his head back up above the surface.  

 

Then it doesn’t matter how many times he sinks.  As long as he can get his feet back under him, he can get back up to air.

 

\---

 

When N H-01987 0006-0204 wakes up the second time, it is dark in the room.  He feels dizzy and strange, uncomfortable in a familiar way.

 

Oh.  He needs to urinate.

 

He stumbles to his feet.  Nearly falls. Leans on the wooden storage unit.  Adjusts.

 

He should go outside, find a safe place to dispose of waste.  But he remembers the white tile room, wonders if it will be like the surgery room, with a drain beneath the table.

 

He would usually be frightened.  But for some reason he is not malfunctioning.  He feels shaky and weak, exhausted, but not frightened.  Maybe it is the dark. It makes him feel disconnected, like floating in the water, the world muted and quiet.

 

He stumbles to the door.  Leans it further open. Adjusts his eyes to the dark, so he can see the room.

 

Oh.  It’s a hygiene room.  There is another storage unit, made of an unfamiliar material.  There is something that looks like a window above it, but he realizes it’s a piece of reflective glass, his reflection a shadow in its center.  There is a hygiene chamber with a drain. There is a white porcelain seat that he vaguely recognizes from glimpses into the guards’ bathrooms, but he’s unsure of its purpose.

 

The drain in the hygiene chamber will do.  He stumbles in, fully clothed, unzips his pants.  Urinates. Makes sure all the waste goes down the drain.  Stumbles out again.

 

He feels suddenly exhausted, drifting on the edge of consciousness.  Like any second now he’ll sink into something warm and dark, like he’ll fall into earth and dirt and will have to be dug out later, when the sun rises, and he’ll come out soft and empty of fear.

 

He stumbles to the large cot.  Crawls onto it. Pulls the blankets over him.

 

Sinks into sleep.

 

\---

 

He dreams:

 

They are in Tenebrae, in fields that stretch to the horizon on all sides.  The grass varies from knee to waist high, tickling against hips and legs, green with purple flowers like strings of beads.  It smells sweet and strange, the air fresh and light. Every breath N H-01987 0006-0204 takes tastes good, light and soft on the back of his tongue.

 

He wants to look at the field for as long as possible.  It looks like the lake, almost, but made of grass. The wind makes ripples.  It is almost like floating, but the world is not muted. It is open. It is quiet except for the wind in the grass, and a constant, soft background sound, low and dark, the sound of the environment, of organisms living and moving.

 

It is a good place.  It would make him feel soft, and small, but now he feels uneasy.  He is thinking of what Aranea said, about how he thinks of humans, how he doesn’t have enough data on humans outside the facility.

 

He shifts.  He doesn’t want to collect more data on humans.  It would be dangerous, especially since he doesn’t even remotely enough data to interact with them without risk.

 

He’s been thinking about another solution.  He wants to request Aranea copies her knowledge of humans and imports it to him.  Then he will have the proper data with almost no risk. Aranea is a reliable source of knowledge and her data on humans has proven at least mostly correct, considering how well she handles them, so the data will not be faulty.  So, he will request a copy of her knowledge. It will be easy. The problem will be solved.

 

He’s having trouble doing it.

 

He doesn’t know why.  His voice is in working order.  But whenever he opens his mouth to ask, his throat becomes strange and blocky, and the words won’t come out.

 

He continues trying for about half an hour.  And then Aranea heaves a sigh so loud that he startles, and she stops.  He doesn’t stop in time and bumps into her back, bouncing off her like a bird learning how to walk, like the small quail they’d seen crossing the trail, bumbling after their adult and stumbling over themselves.

 

“Alright, what’s on your mind.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Wonders what Aranea means, exactly.  Is there- did something slip under his skull and settle on his brain?  He can’t feel anything different.

 

“My skull,” he hazards.

 

Aranea snorts, mutters, “By the _Six_ .”  She turns to face him, smiling wryly, gently raps her knuckles on his forehead.  “I _meant_ , you ridiculous little shit, what are you thinking about?”

 

Oh.  The words get caught up in his throat again.  Aranea’s watching him, though, waiting for an answer.  He wants to give her an answer. He’s nervous about not giving her an answer, not because Aranea would punish him, but because he wants to be able to.  He wants to be functional.

 

“I…” he starts. “I would like- I.  I do not have sufficient data on humans.”

 

Aranea hums and nods.  This is encouraging.

 

“You have sufficient data on humans,” N H-01987 0006-0204 says, and then, speaking fast. “Collecting data through learning is risky because lack of data could lead to incorrect action.  I would like to request an imported copy of your data on humans.”

 

He stops.  That is what he wanted to say, all out there in the air, no longer stuck in him.  He nods.

 

“Wow,” Aranea says, and then she hums. “Hmm. Okay,” she says, but the way she says it makes N H-01987 0006-0204 think she’s saying it to herself, not necessarily agreeing.  Then she addresses him, “You were scared about asking for that?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t want to be scared.  MT’s were not scared. He is aware that he malfunctions in this way, but he thinks this is different.  He hadn’t been frightened. He had been- something else.

 

He shakes his head.

 

Aranea nods, thoughtful.  “You’re not sure if it’s the correct course of action?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 shakes his head immediately.  “It is the most efficient and safe course of action to correct my lack of data.”  He’s certain about that.

 

“Alright,” Aranea says.  “So why were you having trouble asking?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is quiet for a minute.  Tries to think. He hadn’t been frightened. He hadn’t been unsure.  He had been- angry. Frustrated, he thinks, turned inward at himself.  He takes up a lot of resources. This is another resource. Logically he understands that this is the best way to ensure he does not take up unnecessary resources in situations involving humans, but there is something in him that is stuck thinking about taking one more resource.  Wasteful. Unnecessary.

 

“I use a lot of resources,” he manages, finally.

 

Aranea’s quiet for a minute, chin in her hand.  Then she gently touches her knuckles to his forehead.  They are knobbly and soft on his skin.

 

“You have trouble asking for help,” Aranea says.  Her voice is gentle.

 

He blinks.  He does not require help.  He is asking for more resources than strictly necessary.  He is being wasteful. He knows, logically, that this is untrue, but it clings in his head and it sticks to his throat and he’s frustrated, that he’s malfunctioning like this, not only that he has the lack of data, but that he malfunctions when requesting data to correct it.

 

“I will not take what I do not require,” N H-01987 0006-0204 says.  It is something that is programed into his head, a constant reminder whenever he calculates what he should take.

 

Aranea hums.  Then she says, “Look at me.”

 

He raises his head.  When he tries to meet her gaze, his eyes skitter off to the side of their own volition.  His face feels hot, his throat feels sore and angry.

 

“I said _look at me,”_ Aranea says, and N H-01987 0006-0204 meets her eyes.  They are steel gray, her face quiet and neutral and firm.  

 

“You have never wasted resources,” she says, calm and inevitable.  “You have never burdened me. You have never been unworthy of my time or attention.  Do you understand?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 understands.  He does, logically. These are all stated as facts, and Aranea is a good source of facts, so he should accept them.  He should. His chest feels tight and strange and says _untrue untrue untrue_ , _you are wasteful, you should not take what you do not require_.

 

But Aranea is a good source of facts.  So he swallows, nods.

 

“If you require assistance, I want you to ask,” Aranea says.  “I will not always be able to give you what you require. But I want you to ask, so I know you require it.  This will help me plan. Do you understand?”

 

This is easier, for some reason.  Yes, Aranea would need information on his status to plan ahead.  She would need to know as many factors as possible so nothing surprises her.  He nods.

 

“I want you to say that you will ask,” Aranea says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  Blinks. His throat feels sore and angry and blocked, but Aranea is waiting for an answer.

 

He opens his mouth.  Says, “I- uh.” Closes his mouth, lips thinning in his frustration, tries again.  “If I require- I will ask for assistance if I require it.”

 

Aranea nods.  “Good.”

 

And then she’s turning back to walk forward, trailing her hand through the grass.  She jerks her head in the gesture for _follow me_ , and N H-01987 0006-0204 steps after her.

 

“Here’s the thing about my data on humans,” she says as they walk.  N H-01987 0006-0204 keeps pace with so he can see the profile of her face.  “It’s learned, right? And it makes up _who_ I am.  Not all of who I am, but a pretty big portion of it.  And if I imported that to you, you would no longer be you.  You’d be me. But smaller, with anxiety.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 considers this.  He does not think being Aranea would be a bad thing.  She is capable. She does not malfunction like he does, or at least, her malfunctions do not hinder her.  And more than that, she feels- more-ish. Bigger than she actually is, lighter. N H-01987 0006-0204 remembers her laughter in the trees, remembers her arms keeping him curled up against her chest, remembers her lance coming down, quicksilver and lightning, between him and danger.

 

“You are sufficient,” he says.  That is not the correct word, but it’s the closest one he knows.

 

Aranea looks at him.  Her eyes are wide. Her eyebrows furrowed.  Then she makes a strangled noise, and N H-01987 0006-0204 is suddenly frightened, because what if she’s _malfunctioning-_

 

She doubles over, laughing so hard she’s hiccuping on tears.  Oh.

 

He feels light inside, blooming.  The smell of flowers is light on his tongue.  When Aranea straightens, nearly two full minutes later, the lightness remains in him.

 

“Oh my _gods,”_ she says, wiping her eyes.  She’s smiling so wide it hurts to look at, her laughter all cackling teeth, loud and unapologetic.  “I pray that is the first thing you say when we get you flirting.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what flirting is, but he thinks of Aranea’s laugh and he tucks his words away, careful.  When he learns what flirting is he will say that. Perhaps Aranea will laugh again.

 

“Okay, okay,” she says.  “Thanks, robo-boy. Sufficient.  Holy fuck.” then she grins, rubs her face.  “Okay. But here’s the thing, about importing human data.  I’m me, right? And you’re you. And you gotta learn about humans your way, so you’ll interact with them in a way that works for you.”

 

His heart sinks, but he considers this.  The logic is sound. The risk is high. But Aranea has better data and knows the better course of action, so reluctantly, he nods.

 

 _“But,”_ Aranea says, “I wouldn’t mind sharing a little data with you.  Not about humans. Something else.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest lightens.  Aranea knows many things and has a vast storage of data.  Anything she imports to him will be useful and new.

 

“What data?” he asks.  His voice sounds a little bright.  Eager.

 

“Hm,” Aranea taps her finger against her lip.  There’s a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, the kind she has when she’s about to do something tricky.  Her eyes slide over to N H-01987 0006-0204, gray and steel and sharp and playful.

 

“How much you know about lances?”

 

\---

 

The third time he wakes up, the sky is graying outside.

 

It takes him a moment to remember everything, but when he does, it doesn’t frighten him as much.  He’s still scared, more than he should be, but his head is no longer reeling.

 

He just lays there and breathes for a moment.  The image of the grass, flowers beneath his fingers and the smell in his mouth, lingers.  And further than that, quieter, the sky overhead, and the watering muting his hearing, is still there.  It helps.

 

He has to organize his thoughts.  He has to analyze the situation at hand.

 

He doesn’t want to.  He’s calm, but in a kind of drifting sense, like if he focuses he’ll shake to pieces.  He shifts, touching the soft cot, the blankets warm beneath him.

 

It’s okay.  He’ll go slowly, and if he starts shaking, he’ll- do something.  Slow down. Dig his fingers into his collarbone. That helped last time.

 

First: he is in a different place.  His base is no longer Hammerhead. He knows he was supposed to go “live with Iggy,” so presumably this is Iggy’s home.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels uneasy, remembers light reflecting off of glasses, of the man’s voice. Iggy wanted him to see doctors.  Because Iggy knew he was broken?

 

He places that thought lower in his priorities.  First he has to establish all he can about where he is.

 

They crossed a wall coming here.  It was a two part barrier. One, the looming metal structure clawing at the sky, a mile or more high and stretching further than he could calculate.  It was a physical barrier and therefore it kept physical attackers out, like animals or scourge-infected creatures or the larger daemons. Perhaps other humans, if they were enemies.  Two, the magical barrier.

 

It was like the barriers that kept daemons out, in some of camping sites with blue-runed stones, like the barrier around Hammerhead.  But multiplied, several thousand times more powerful. More dangerous.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes that he might be able to still feel it, even now.  It might be the illness in his stomach, the itching in his blood. Maybe that’s why he vomited earlier, why he still feels tired even though he’s just woken up from a resting period.

 

He tries to evaluate how he’s feeling, to compare it to sunsickness; the closest comparison he has to barrier magic as powerful as this.  It feels unusually difficult, so after a moment he runs a comparison. Comes up with an 86% match, which is conclusive enough; it’s probably the barrier.

 

But- the man.  He had felt… relaxed?

 

No, his body had been relaxed.  He had been terrified, but the daemon blood in him at been soothed and calm.  N H-01987 0006-0204 has no data on anything that could cause that.

 

The man must have an effect on daemon blood, and therefore a connection to it.  It made sense. The man had magic, that was already clear, but the fact that being in close proximity to him made N H-01987 0006-0204’s daemon blood feel calm and satisfied suggested that the man had a connection to daemons specifically.

 

There was another thing.  N H-01987 0006-0204 felt the barrier magic like sunsickness beneath his skin, but he hadn’t felt it around the man.  So the man drove away the barrier magic, or at least affected it.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 licked his lips.  Everything in him is screaming to classify the man as an enemy, but the man was dealing with N H-01987 0006-0204 like they were allies, or like he was N H-01987 0006-0204’s superior.  They were making deals and trades. And… N H-01987 0006-0204 was horribly, mercilessly dependent on the man. He could not classify him as an enemy.

 

He couldn’t classify him as an ally, either.  N H-01987 0006-0204 swallowed, twitched. He really couldn’t classify the man at all.  He knew he had to obey the man’s terms, or risk Aranea, and in that sense he _could_ classify him as a superior, but the thought made his stomach surge.

 

A thought occurs to him; he could classify him in the same class as the dangerous guards.  Less of a person and more of an environmental hazard, like an earthquake. Dangerous, but not an enemy, just destructive by nature.  An earthquake that could think.

 

So the man was an environmental danger.  One that could think. N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t have good guidelines for that, only the bare minimum that he’s constructed for the dangerous guards.  The best guidelines he has so far is to lay low and obey, and look for weakness.

 

He doesn’t if the man will do as he says he will.  The guards sometimes did things they said they wouldn’t.  He would have to observe the man.

 

The thought made him feel ill.  He doesn’t want- the man terrifies him, grips a tiny animal in his brain and makes it scream.  He wants to spend as little time as possible around him.

 

He’s not sure if that will be an option.

 

He considers this.  Puts it to the side for now.  Considers Iggy.

 

Iggy wanted him to see doctors.  Iggy knew he was malfunctioning.

 

No, Iggy thought he was a human.  Did humans see doctors? N H-01987 0006-0204 didn’t think that was something they did.  Doctors were too clinical, too painful, and humans didn’t- they- pain was not meant for humans.

 

But Iggy thought he was human.  He treated him like a human. The man might be lying.  The man might be telling the truth, and Iggy wants him to believe that he thinks he’s human, so that he won’t resist when he takes him to the doctors.

 

Iggy doesn’t need to do that.  The thought of doctors makes N H-01987 0006-0204 malfunctioning and afraid, shaky and weak, but he would go.  Even if he malfunctioned so badly that he resisted, the malfunctions made him discoordinated enough that taking him to the doctors and restraining him would be an easy task.  He doesn’t think he would cause Iggy that much trouble. He hopes he wouldn’t.

 

It is not relevant.  The man said he would protect him from doctors.  The man is bigger than Iggy, and has magic, and he seems- unmovable.  N H-01987 0006-0204 must obey the man and work around his orders. Iggy might have to as well.

 

So: he will not see doctors.  Iggy might know that he is not human, but has not acted on it so far.  The man is probably more powerful than Iggy.

 

Next.  The wire.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know where it is.  It had been in the storage unit of the car, and now presumably it had been moved to a storage unit here.  Iggy seemed discontent about the wire, but N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t think he would hide it. He has the gloves Cindy made, so he’ll less at risk of injury, and Iggy had not acted to stop him before.

 

He sits up, slowly.  He is in the same room.  The light is still gray, but it’s growing lighter; it’s dawn.  He checks his internal clock, finds that he slept from yesterday afternoon to this morning, with few interruptions.

 

That is fine.  The itchiness in his blood makes him too unsettled to rest again, and he has rested all he requires anyway.  He gets up.

 

He finds his boots, laces them up.  Straightens his shirt and pants. Wonders if he’s supposed to use the hygiene chamber, decides it would be a good course of action.  The facility put them in the hygiene chambers once a week. It was unpleasant, but the humans were always pleased afterwards. N H-01987 0006-0204 understands that this is because the MT’s no longer smelled strongly.

 

He takes his boots off again. Strips his clothes.  He turns a knob in the hygiene chamber and water jets out, cold and clean.  There are small bottles on the chamber floor, and he reads them before entering in case they’re important.  They appear to be cleaning agents, meant for biological parts and therefore safe to use on skin, complete with instructions.

 

He steps in.  The water is cold, his skin jumping and crawling, and it feels strange in combination with the persistent sunsickness-itch from the barrier magic.  It is easily handled, though, and he squirts faintly flower-smelling liquid from the bottles and uses it as instructed, first on his skin and then in his hair.

 

By the time he exits the hygiene chamber he smells flowery.  If he tucks his head down and sniffs, the smell is stronger, mixed with the dirt and sweat underneath, reminding him of the field of purple flowers in Tenebrae.  It is pleasant. It is different than what he is used to. He would like to use the hygiene chamber more than once a week, if it makes him smell like this.

 

He dresses.  Laces up his boots.  Finger-combs his hair to hide the ports behind his ears.  Checks his shirt, tugs it to make the ports less obvious. Folds up the gloves, careful, and puts them in his pocket.

 

He opens the closed door.  The hallway beyond is unfamiliar, with a high arcing ceiling and stone floor.  He can hear footsteps, humans speaking and breathing, a quiet, constant backdrop.

 

He activates his mapping program.  Breathes deep. Steps out.

 

\---

 

He doesn’t find the wire first.  What he does find is other humans.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204, in theory, knows how to interact with humans he doesn’t know.  He pretends to ignore them. Most humans do this, pass by other humans if they don’t know each other.  It is normal.

 

In practice, his muscles are tense and jumpy beneath his skin.  The people passing by all have Lucian coloring. Their clothes are very complicated.  They seem very clean. A couple of them glance at him, eyebrows furrowed. N H-01987 0006-0204 ignores them and passes by, his skin crawling and jerking with more than sunsickness.

 

Not so bad, he assures himself.  He is still uneasy. And then he hears:

 

“You coulda let me sleep in if you were gonna drag me all over the place.”  It’s a familiar voice. He knows it. It makes him feel easier. Where has he heard it before?

 

“He can’t have wandered far,” another voice frets, and this one is Tenebraen, and N H-01987 0006-0204 _knows_ it.  It’s Iggy.  And the other one, the other one is Noct.

 

Iggy comes around the corner.  He looks frazzled. His glasses are slipping off his face.  N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks _doctors,_ and he should feel uneasy, but he- doesn’t.  Or he doesn’t _only_ feel uneasy.  He thinks of the food, and feels good, kind of.  Eager and uneasy together.

 

“There you are,” Iggy sighes, pinching the bridge of his nose.  Noct comes around the corner, looking confused, a bag slung over over his shoulder, then he brightens up.

 

“It’s you!” Noct says.

 

 _It’s me,_ N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks, but can’t say.  His face is making the pleased expression.

 

“Awesome,” Noct says, and then, glancing up at Iggy, “You can call me in sick, right?”

 

“Absolutely not,” Iggy says.  Noct pouts. “What are you doing out here?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t answer, but Noct comes closer anyway.  He gives N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulder the friendly punch, and N H-01987 0006-0204, happy and light and good inside, gives him one in return.  Noct grins.

 

“Man, we gotta play Assassin’s Creed,” he says.  “I got Syndicate.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what that means, but Noct’s face has a quiet sort of brightness to it, like the pleased expression but softer, easily hidden.  N H-01987 0006-0204 likes it. He thinks he would like to play Assassin’s Creed, if it means Noct makes that expression.

 

He also needs to work on the wire dress.  N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitates, wonders if maybe he can do both, if Assassin’s Creed is like the simulation on the phone, where they could both sit still during it.  Maybe he could work on the dress when Noct doesn’t require him to assist.

 

“I had come to wake you and get you situated,” Iggy says.  “I must run Noct to school, but I will be back in half an hour.  Until then you may wish to wait in the room until I can come give you a tour-”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wants the wire.  He knows that half an hour isn’t a long time to wait realistically, but he could work in that time.  He could at least re-familiarize himself with it. He doesn’t know how to impart this information to Iggy.

 

Then he does.  He holds his hand up, fingers splayed.  Noct and Iggy look at him. He points at the half-healed scars on his hand.  Drags a finger over one.

 

Iggy looks pained.  Noct looks some mix of confused and concerned.

 

“Dude,” Noct says. “Do you need bandaids?”

 

He doesn’t need bandaids.  He wants the wire. He looks at Iggy, holds eye contact.  Points again.

 

Iggy sighes, scrubs a hand over his face. “The barbed wire,” he says, “I put it in the east wing’s- ah.  I put in a storage area. I can fetch it for you after I take Noct to school-”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 points harder.  Presses his finger into his hand. It stings.

 

Noct says, “Woah hey,” and grabs his wrist.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him and suddenly- he comes back to himself.  He can’t- demand something from Iggy, Iggy’s a human, he’s malfunctioning, what is he _doing-_

 

“Hey, hey,” Noct’s saying.  “It’s okay, alright? It’s alright.  It’s alright.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  He’s breathing a little fast.  Iggy makes a noise like he’s about to say something, stops.

 

Noct’s looking at N H-01987 0006-0204, with his lips thinning, concerned.  He tightens his grip. Says, “It’s okay.”

 

It’s… not okay.  It shouldn’t be okay.  But, N H-01987 0006-0204 remembers, they think he’s human, and if a human was insistent- that was okay.  Humans could do that. They didn’t know, they could have no idea that he wasn’t one.

 

But he isn’t one.  And they don’t know.

 

It’s not okay.  He’s withholding information.  He- he doesn’t like that. Iggy feeds him, and Noct is _Noct-_ and he doesn’t- he shouldn’t- it’s not okay.  It’s not. And he can’t correct it. He can’t talk, because if he does, Aranea would live out the rest of her life unable to touch the sun.

 

 _It’s not okay_ , N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks, but can’t say. _But I have to._

 

His breathing jerky.  He feels stiff and strange.  Noct tugs at him, a little bit, so he looks up and tries to replicate the pleased expression.  He doesn’t think it works, by the way Noct’s face just gets more twisted up.

 

“Perhaps you would like to come with us to drop Noct off,” Iggy says.  “Just to give us all a little peace of mind.”

 

“Yeah, you can come see my dumb school,” Noct says.  His eyes slide back to Iggy, and then he’s saying, “And Specs’ll be around while I’m gone.  Right?”

 

“Of course,” Iggy says.

 

“Right,” says Noct.  He squeezes N H-01987 0006-0204’s wrist one last time, let's go.  “C’mon. The sooner I’m there, the sooner I get to come back.”

 

Iggy makes a quiet coughing sound.  Noct ignores him, sets off down the corridor, jerking his head in the _follow_ gesture, like Aranea used to do.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 follows.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter has a minor anxiety attack, mentions of domestic abuse, and something like psychological torture.
> 
> I depict religion in this chapter. It is not based after any real-world religion.

N H-01987 0006-0204 learns a lot of things while driving with Iggy and Noct.  The first is that it is normal for Noct to fall asleep outside the human day-night rest cycle.  Within maybe thirty seconds of starting the engine, Noct is slumped over with his head on the window, eyes closed.  N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders, again, if Noct is ill, but Iggy appears unconcerned, so N H-01987 0006-0204 decides that this might simply be a Noct-specific behavior.

 

“The joys of teenagehood,” Iggy says under his breath, and then he raises his voice, meeting N H-01987 0006-0204’s eyes in the mirror, “My apologies about Noct.  Will you be alright back there?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 will be alright back here.  He blinks at Iggy, wishes people would stop asking him questions he can’t answer.

 

“Well, if you aren’t, feel free to get my attention.  Ah, preferably without blocking my view or startling me, please.  Tapping the dash or my shoulder should be fine.”

 

Oh.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stores away that information.  He feels a little better, still jittery from his almost-malfunction in the hall, but Noct’s breathing, soft and mellow, is soothing.  He thinks of Iggy making room for his hindrances instead of demanding speech, like some of the facility guards might have if he had suddenly stopped communicating verbally.  It is nice.

 

The second thing he learns is that they’re in a city.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hadn’t thought much about where they were, besides that they were near the large barrier and in Iggy’s home.  He had been too sick from crossing the barrier to really pay attention the first time, but now, with only the weird itch beneath his skin, he can watch the streets and buildings and people- a truly staggering amount of people- pass by the window.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 has only really seen cities from a distance.  He didn’t pass as human enough to accompany Aranea when she had to visit one, and the brief passing through Gralea at the very beginning he spent barely conscious and slung on Aranea’s back.  He knew what cities were from imported data, but only in the sense that he knew how to use them as a battle environment, and now he also has some cobbled-together data from Aranea’s stories. He knows they’re living spaces for humans, and that humans have access to shelter, work, water and food in them, and that they’re a loosely structured amalgamation of streetways and buildings of various purposes.

 

He didn’t realize there would be so much color, and light.  Instead of metal covers, trees are planted at regular intervals along the street, so dappled sunlight can thread its way through and touch the heads and shoulders of the people below.  Some of the buildings have variations in color that are pleasing to look at. So do people’s clothes, and signs, and cars. The cars are completely different from the gray armored facility vehicles, or even from the brown and gray rusty cars at Hammerhead.

 

A bright red car passes by.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at it.  It is brighter than berries. It’s almost the same color as the red tags at the facility, but it’s so much bigger than a tag that N H-01987 0006-0204 is amazed.  It’s a lot of red. N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders why anyone would use that many resources on a car color, if the color assists it somehow or serves as a signal of some sort.

 

Eventually they end up somewhere more crowded, where they inch along, pinned in on all sides by other cars.  Sometimes humans run across the street in front of them. They appear to be mostly juveniles.

 

And then they’re pulling over, and Iggy is saying, “Noct.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at Noct.  He’s still asleep. N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders if he’s supposed to wake Noct up for Iggy.

 

_ “Noctis,” _ Iggy says, and Noct groans and blinks his eyes open.  He stares out the window with bleary eyes, and then unbuckles his seatbelt, shuffling his bag onto his shoulder, opens the car door.

 

“Bye Iggy,” he says, and then he looks at N H-01987 0006-0204, hesitates.  Says, “I’ll be back after school, okay? Stick with Iggy.”

 

_ Okay _ , N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks.  He blinks at Noct.

 

“See you,” Noct says, and then he’s shutting the door and walking away, towards a gated cluster of buildings that other humans seem to be flowing to.

 

Iggy hums, then says, “Would you like to sit up front?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand, for a moment.  Then he sees Iggy indicate the navigator’s seat, and yes, he would like to sit there-  _ up front. _  He looks outside, at the mass of people, their chatter dulled by the window, and hesitates.  Doesn’t want to go outside. So he unbuckles the restraints and grips the sides of seats, swinging his legs over and slotting himself into place in the seat.

 

Iggy makes a surprised noise, then says, “Ah.  You do know it’s alright to use the doors?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 didn’t want to use the doors.  But maybe Iggy wanted him to use the doors, and Iggy was a human- no, they thought he was human too.  But Iggy did know a lot, and seemed to be in charge of Noct, so perhaps he held a high rank, higher than… wherever N H-01987 0006-0204 was.  And he wanted N H-01987 0006-0204 to use the doors.

 

Except he doesn’t seem upset.  He’s already pulling out into the street, peering into the side mirrors with furrowed brows.

 

“I don’t know if the students or the parents are worse,” he says.  Then he looks at N H-01987 0006-0204 with a sideways sweep of his eyes, and he smiles.  “Now then. Why don’t we see about breakfast?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows what  _ breakfast  _ is, from Cindy and Paw-Paw.  It is food eaten in the morning.  Maybe Iggy will make the food. The jitters from his almost-malfunction are gone entirely now, replaced with a kind of warmth.  He’s still cautious, and he probably will be until he has a better grasp of this strange new environment, but the anxiety has faded out into something else.  

 

It’s eagerness, he realizes.  He hopes they eat breakfast. He hopes it involves Iggy making food.

 

He tries for the pleased expression again.  He thinks he does better than last time; Iggy’s eyes crinkle at the corners.

 

\---

 

Breakfast involves some soft, sweet things Iggy calls  _ pastries _ .  It’s far different from anything N H-01987 0006-0204’s had before.  The closest thing he can compare it to is when Cindy gave him a  _ grilled cheese _ , which was savory and salty rather than sweet, but something about the texture is similar.  N H-01987 0006-0204 suspects they’re made of similar materials.

 

Iggy does not make breakfast.  Instead, they pick up the pastries from a place Iggy calls the _ dining hall. _  There are other humans, serving themselves and speaking to each other, but N H-01987 0006-0204 sticks close to Iggy, and while he is tense, having a reliable source on what to do helps.  He just copies what Iggy does.

 

It is also similar to the room where the guards ate in the facility.  It helps. The familiarity of it settles something in N H-01987 0006-0204, like how digging his fingers into his collarbones settles him.

 

They also pick up some fruits, a mix of berries and some other things, some of which N H-01987 0006-0204 recognizes, most of which he doesn’t.  Iggy directs him to pour a glass from a pitcher of orange liquid Iggy calls  _ orange juice _ .  Iggy has a cup of something that smells pleasant in an odd way, like something burnt and bittersweet.  He calls it  _ coffee _ , and says that N H-01987 0006-0204 would probably dislike it.

 

When N H-01987 0006-0204 keeps looking at it, curious, Iggy allows him a sip.  Iggy is right. N H-01987 0006-0204 does not like it. It is bitter to the point of poison.  His whole face twists up and Iggy makes a soft sound like he’s trying to hold back a cough. Iggy is smiling, though, so N H-01987 0006-0204 takes another sip, to make sure Iggy keeps smiling, then stops.  He will have to find a different way to make Iggy smile. If he keeps sipping the  _ coffee  _ he’s sure he’ll be poisoned.  Maybe it was poisonous for MT’s but not for humans.

 

After they have plates with food, they leave the hall.  N H-01987 0006-0204 wants to eat while they walk, but Iggy doesn’t, so he doesn’t.  It doesn’t matter for long; they go in a room crowded with paper and a desk, where Iggy picks up a stack and a couple of books, and then they leave again.

 

They end up outside, in a courtyard thick with plants.  It is bright and smells fresh and sweet, like the fields in Tenebrae, but more complex and layered.  When they sit at a bench N H-01987 0006-0204 remains still for awhile, just breathing.

 

Eventually he eats.  The pastries are soft and sweet and good, but strange, unfamiliar.  They make him feel uneasy. The fruits are better, more recognizable.  Iggy eats and writes at the same time, flipping through papers. He never gets food stains on the papers.  N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks Iggy must have some sort of magic, too. Wonders if magic is common here.

 

The orange juice is strange.  It is bright, and sweet. It tastes like eating a fruit, but constant.  The taste lingers on N H-01987 0006-0204’s tongue long after he finishes it, and he swipes a finger inside the glass to get the last of it.

 

“We can get you a refill,” Iggy says.  He sounds amused. N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what  _ refill  _ means, but Iggy doesn’t explain.  Instead he gathers the plates up and gives N H-01987 0006-0204 a smile.  “Now, how about a tour?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 gets a tour.  It is like using the mapping program, but about a hundred times more efficient.  Iggy explains that they’re in a place called the  _ Citadel, _ and shows him all the places he has high enough clearance for, all the places that he can go to during some parts of the day but not others, the places he can go to if he is seeking out Iggy, the places he can go to if he is seeking out Noct.  The Citadel is like a fort, but larger and with more structural weaknesses; there are actually times where outside humans are allowed inside. Iggy calls these  _ publicity events. _  N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks this is a serious flaw.

 

There are several buildings or areas with specific purposes, and Iggy rattles off another list of areas that they can’t visit right now and mentions a couple of other buildings in passing that N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t have clearance for.  This helps, makes N H-01987 0006-0204 feel more settled. He understands clearance. He understands rules. They are familiar.

 

Eventually Iggy says, “Now, I would normally train with Gladio at this time.  Will you be alright watching us?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  He… malfunctions more easily, around Gladio.  But he understands that Gladio is highly unlikely to hurt him.  He hadn’t hurt him last time either, by the fire, with the skewers, and that helps, for some reason.  So does the memory of Gladio pointing upward, finding pictures in stars. He still feels uneasy, but not nervous to the point of malfunction like last time.

 

He would be fine.  He will delegate part of his power to control his heartbeat.  Cindy is not there, and Iggy doesn’t feel as solid and warm as she does, but he’ll put his back to a wall.  That will help.

 

He wants the wire, though.  He hesitates. He has to ask.  He’ll be subservient, and not demand, and hopefully Iggy won’t be angry.

 

He raises his hand again, looking more at Iggy’s chin than his eyes.  Puts a finger on a scar, careful not to press.

 

Iggy’s mouth thins.  He looks vaguely like he’s in pain, and for a moment N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest tightens, but Iggy only says, “Yes, of course.”

 

Iggy leads him to a small storage room, not far from the room where N H-01987 0006-0204 woke up.  He marks it on his mapping program.

 

The wire has been placed carefully on the ground, too large and awkward to fit on a shelf.  It glitters faintly in the light. Something in N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest eases. He hadn’t realized how much he expected the wire to be taken from him.

 

He gathers it in large loops, trying to get it all of the ground, before Iggy says, “Ah, wait-”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 pauses, looks at Iggy, who is looking at the shelves.  He pulls out something that looks like tough canvas, starts unfolding it.

 

“Here,” Iggy says, businesslike.  “To carry it. Now, do you have gloves?”

 

He does have gloves.  He blinks at Iggy. The gloves are in his pocket; he needs his hands free to get them.  He doesn’t want to put the wire down. His arms are tense around it. He thinks Iggy won’t take the wire from him, but putting the wire down seems hard, muscles locked in place.

 

Iggy isn’t paying him attention, though.  He has unfolded the canvas and is frowning at it, then he folds it once, so it’s a double thick rectangle of cloth, a couple feet by couple feet, and then holds it out.

 

“Give it here,” he says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes that Iggy wants him to put the wire in the canvas.  He hesitates. Puts the wire on the ground, bracketed on either side by his feet.  He takes the cloth from Iggy, careful, and wraps it around the wire. Picks up the wire again.  That was okay, right? Iggy just wanted him to put the wire in the canvas. The wire was in the canvas.  So the goal was accomplished, so it was okay, right?

 

Iggy doesn’t seems angry.  But it is harder to understand the emotions on his face.  He is quieter than Aranea or Noct or Cindy or even Paw-Paw, the expressions muted and hidden.

 

“Very good,” he says.  Then, “Are you alright to see Gladio?  I don’t wish to cause you any distress.”

 

Iggy doesn’t seem angry.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him, tries to study his face.

 

“Ah, yes,” Iggy says quietly, and then, “We’ll go ahead and try, then.  If you are ever uneasy, please feel free to get my attention. We are merely scheduled for exercise today; it can be easily be rescheduled.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t quite make sense of what Iggy means.  But he comes to the conclusion that Iggy is not angry. He should feel better.

 

He just feels strange.

 

\---

 

They go to a large building.  Parts of it have no ceiling, courtyards yawning into open air, and these have sharp noises of metal on metal, hurried footsteps, the noises of sparring.  They pass by other rooms with high glass walls, row after row of machines N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know the purpose of, and then rows of treadmills.

 

There are other people, strung along in ones and twos, speaking to each other or stretching.  They pass by without paying N H-01987 0006-0204 or Iggy any attention.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s heart wants to beat faster.  He realizes he’s breathing a little fast, delegates part of his power to regulating his heartbeat, and then some more to his breath.  Something in the back of his brain jerks and struggles, but only for a second before it’s collapsing into rest.

 

His brain is looking for reasons to be afraid, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks.  He feels frustrated and strange, everything tense and miserable. He’s fine.  He’s  _ fine.  _  Why can’t he be fine?

 

Iggy says, “Ah, hold a moment-”

 

He stops.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stops after him, watching.  Tries to push frustration and fear down so he can attend to Iggy.

 

Iggy opens a door, peers his head around the frame.  After a minute, he opens the door fully and steps through, gesturing for N H-01987 0006-0204 to follow after.  He does.

 

The room is mostly empty, with large flat mats over most of the floor.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t recognize them. And then he does- they’re mats for sparring rooms, made so the humans won’t damage their heads or joints against a hard floor.

 

A large hunched shape is seated on the mats, and N H-01987 0006-0204 turns to look and sees-

 

_ The training room guard, pressing his hand down on an MT, pinning him to the floor.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s own face staring back at him, reflected again and again around the room, his gene group standing in even lines. The guard saying, “Again-” _

 

-it’s Gladio.  It’s Gladio. It’s _ fine, _ it’s Gladio.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s heart is trapped in its regular beat and his breath is steady and even, but his head wants to rip free and float off, and his vision is strange and spotted.

 

He realizes he’s stopped, clutching the wire hard to his body.  Iggy is looking at him with his eyebrows furrowed, and Gladio is looking at him with a deep frown creasing his face.

 

He’s fine.  He’s fine. He tries for the pleased expression, but it twitches and spasms on his face like a dying thing, and Iggy sighs, soft.

 

“Gladio, why don’t we reschedule,” Iggy murmurs, and Gladio says, “Yeah, sure.  This afternoon?” and- and-

 

He’s fine.  He’s  _ fine _ .  N H-01987 0006-0204 can be here.  He won’t malfunction. He won’t cause trouble for Iggy.  

 

He blinks.  Stands a little straighter.  Marches over to the wall, puts the wire down.  Sits down beside it, starts unfolding the canvas.  Picks up the wire. Looks at Iggy.

 

Iggy’s face is unreadable again.  But Gladio says, “Guess the kid’s tougher than he looks.”

 

Iggy’s lips are pressed into a thin line.  He’s quiet, and N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest starts to tighten, but then he sighs, pushes his glasses up his face.  He lowers his voice, and N H-01987 0006-0204 has to sharpen his hearing to catch what he says next. “...well. At any rate, perhaps we should avoid sparring for now.”

 

“‘Course,” Gladio says, equally quiet. “Want spotting for flips?”

 

“Do I look like I need spotting for flips?” Iggy sniffs, and Gladio laughs, low.  Their voices rise a bit to their regular level, talking while they stretch a little.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 watches them for a while.  Then he looks at the wire. It is a little misshapen from being carried in the canvas, but not bad.  Easily fixed.

 

He pulls Cindy’s gloves out of his pocket.  Unfolds them carefully. Puts them on.

 

Gets to work.

 

\---

 

Gladio and Iggy run in large circles around the room.  N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders why they don’t use treadmills, but they only run for about ten minutes before they’re stretching again, farther this time, pushing their limbs harder.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 watches them for a while.  Can’t quite figure out what they’re doing, but comes to the conclusion that it’s is harmless.  Focuses on the wire again. He can figure out their activities at a different time. 

 

The wire scrapes harmlessly along the leather of the gloves.  N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks of Cindy. Feels a little better.

 

It also clicks against the bracelet’s metal buckle, sharp little noises, like metal on tile.  In the room’s artificial lights, the half-skull winks and glistens.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels ill.

 

\---

 

They stay like that for two hours.  Something uneasy washes over N H-01987 0006-0204 in slow-building waves, fading into nothing after a few seconds each time.  It’s fear. It doesn’t make sense, not really, but his body malfunctions, wants to jitter and shake. But his breathing and heartbeat remain even under his instruction, so the fear jerks and dies out each time.

 

It comes and goes.  It seems to be slowing down.  N H-01987 0006-0204 hopes it is, doesn’t want to delegate power to calming himself indefinitely.  

 

It’s frustrating.  It’s like his body  _ wants  _ to be afraid.  Like it’s just looking for a reason.

 

\---

 

After two hours, a juvenile human enters the room.  By this time the strange malfunction- the slow-flowing fear- has died down.  N H-01987 0006-0204 feels strange and tired in its wake, like even without access to his heartbeat and breath it has still somehow taken up his energy.

 

Gladio and Iggy have been doing jumps and flips in long lines down the mat, starting at one end of the room and ending at the other without ever walking inbetween.  It’s pleasing to watch. It reminds N H-01987 0006-0204 of Aranea, except Aranea leapt high, used her lance to springboard herself to three or four times her own height.  N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks that Aranea could out-flip Iggy and Gladio. It makes his chest feel strange, both warm and empty, like the feeling from Hammerhead a couple nights ago, at the last dinner before he was to leave.

 

He doesn’t get long to reflect on it, because his short-range sensors tell him that something has entered the room.  He turns, looks, sees a human close the door soundlessly behind them.

 

It is a juvenile, short, with a bob of brown hair.  It is female, with sharp brown eyes and a bright smile that creases her eyes, like- like the human from the simulation Noct played, the one that said  _ pronto.  _

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  The human sees him, smiles wider, puts a finger to her lips.  Winks.

 

Then she creeps closer to the mats.  She is very quiet. N H-01987 0006-0204 wouldn’t have noticed her without his sensors, wonders if Iggy and Gladio knows she’s there.  Is he supposed to warn them? Is she dangerous? He should make a sound, should bang his fist against the wooden floor.

 

Gladio frightens him, but he’s Noct’s companion.  And Iggy is there too, and Iggy is frightening sometimes- with the glasses, with his quiet precision, like the doctors- but he’s Iggy.  He feeds N H-01987 0006-0204.

 

The juvenile human creeps soundlessly, less than ten feet from where Gladio is doing push-ups.  N H-01987 0006-0204 makes up his mind. 

 

He slams his foot against the floor.  It makes a loud, hollow  _ bang. _

 

Iggy startles, glances up, and Gladio makes a surprised noise, but the juvenile human throws herself bodily at Gladio, catches her arms around his neck.  He leaps to his feet, roaring, and N H-01987 0006-0204 sees-

 

_ The guard is bigger and faster and stronger than they are, and he turns incredibly fast, his eyes glittering, and catches one of them in the neck.  The MT goes flying, hits the wall with a crack, slides down, trailing black sludge- _

 

_ The guard twists, meets N H-01987 0006-0204’s eyes- _

 

He’s breathing wrong.  His processor is keeping his breathing under a certain speed, but it still seems wrong.  He realizes it’s because he’s not breathing.

 

He sucks in a breath.  Feels heady and loose, half a minute from passing out.

 

_ “Iris!” _ Gladio is yelling.  He sounds- amused. Maybe the juvenile human is safe.  N H-01987 0006-0204 looks up, sees her clinging to Gladio’s shoulders, and they’re swinging around, and it looks like fighting, but only sort of.  He isn’t sure, doesn’t understand.

 

“Gladio,” Iggy says, his tone sharp, and Gladio slows, turning to look at Iggy.  Then Iggy is walking towards N H-01987 0006-0204, his lips thin, and his glasses glint and he’s so tall, towering over N H-01987 0006-0204, and-

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s eyes are closed.  He doesn’t realize he’s flinched away until he hears Iggy’s soft intake of breath.  He’s quiet for a moment, then there’s a soft shuffle.

 

“I’m sitting in front of you,” Iggy says.  His voice is gentle. The narration helps, somehow.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know why. “Can you open your eyes?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t want to, but Iggy is asking.  And then suddenly he wants to so much it’s eating him up inside, and his eyes fly open with frightening intensity, wide enough to hurt.

 

Iggy is sitting in front of him, a little to the side.  There is an opening to his right if he needs to run. Farther away, he sees Gladio sitting on the floor, the juvenile human still wrapped around his neck.  They’re watching him with something that N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t discern, not with his eyes wanting to skitter every which way.

 

It helps that Gladio is sitting.  He looks smaller. It helps that there is an open space to N H-01987 0006-0204’s right, wide enough that he could dart away.  It helps that Iggy is sitting with a few feet of space between them, not very close.

 

“There we are,” Iggy says, soft, kind.  “Can you breathe for me?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 has stopped breathing again, he realizes.  He makes himself suck in a breath, and then another. It feels strange for his body not to do it automatically.

 

“Very good,” Iggy says.  “Breathe with me.”

 

Iggy takes an exaggerated breath in.  Waits a moment. Lets it out. N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at him, not comprehending.

 

“With me,” Iggy says, encouraging, and then he does it again.  He does it a few more times before N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes that he wants him to match his breathing pattern.  N H-01987 0006-0204 breathes in, obediently, and then delegates part of his processing power to matching Iggy’s breath.

 

“Well done,” Iggy says.  That… helps, somehow. Makes N H-01987 0006-0204 feel softer, less sharp and brittle.  Yes. He is accomplishing the task. He is doing it well.

 

They stay like that for a few minutes, just breathing.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s head slowly starts to feel more settled.  Further away, the juvenile female and Gladio start talking to each other quietly.  He realizes that she must be safe. Feels stupid.

 

“Better?” Iggy asks, soft.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.

 

Iggy must take this as an answer, because he half turns, gestures to Gladio and the human female.  

 

“This is Iris,” Iggy says.  He’s still watching N H-01987 0006-0204, his face gentle and kind, his eyes careful and concerned.  “She’s Gladio’s sister.”

 

“Hey,” the juvenile says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know  _ sister _ .  But he understands: the strange human is named  _ Iris. _  Iris is associated with Gladio somehow, maybe like how Iggy and Gladio and Noct are companions.  Iris is not dangerous. 

 

He made a mistake.  He feels inadequate and strange, frustrated.  He blinks at the wire. His face feels tight and twisted, upset.

 

Iggy speaks softly to Gladio.  Turns back to N H-01987 0006-0204.

 

“Why don’t we take a break?” Iggy says, gently.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what Iggy means.  But then Iggy is rising to his feet, careful and slow, and offering  N H-01987 0006-0204 a hand.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  Blinks at the outstretched arm. Feel jittery and strange, reluctant to touch, so he uses the wall to push himself up instead.  Stands, a little shaky.

 

“There we are,” Iggy says.  He watches N H-01987 0006-0204 for a moment.  Must be satisfied with what he sees, because he walks a few paces towards the door, nodding at Gladio and Iris.  Turns back to look at N H-01987 0006-0204 again. “Do you feel well enough to walk? It won’t be far.”

 

He does.  He hesitates.  Gathers up the wire, wrapping the canvas around it.  Blinks at Gladio and Iris. Gladio glances away. Iris waves.

 

He follows Iggy.

 

\---

 

They go a series of rooms that Iggy calls  _ my apartment _ .   N H-01987 0006-0204 concludes that  _ apartment  _ must be related to compartment somehow, and that the rooms belong to Iggy like how the doctors and scientists had offices.

 

There is a main room with other rooms branching off of it; and some semi rooms that attached to the main room but with no wall to separate them.  This includes a food preparation area and another area that N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know the purpose of, with a wooden floor and table and several chairs.

 

The main room has a thick carpet and two couches, both sleeker and paler than the one at Hammerhead.  A large window lets in outside light. The room feels- open, sort of. Light and good.

 

Iggy directs him to sit at the wooden table.   N H-01987 0006-0204 sits carefully in one of the chairs.  It has a cushion. It is soft, and the wood is cold against his back.  Outside the window, the sky is very blue. He can hear birds.

 

“Are you feeling better?” Iggy asks.  His voice is still gentle.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is feeling better.  He tries for a smile. It feels weak and tired on his face, but the line of Iggy’s shoulders relax a little, so  N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks the smile was alright.

 

“How about I make you something to drink?” Iggy says, gravitating towards the kitchen area.  “Would you like tea?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels strange again, suddenly.  He knows tea, it is… Is…

 

The faint, flowery smelling drink.  The man. His throat, burning-

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks, he doesn’t want tea, he doesn’t, he doesn’t- his fingers scrabble against the wooden tabletop, make sharp clicking noises, and his eyes are very wide.

 

Iggy turns, looks at him.  He frowns, contemplative. N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at him, but can’t quite keep his focus.  His eyes slide to the floor, and his fingers curl of their own accord, start gravitating towards his collarbone.  He tries to force them down. Iggy wouldn’t feed him tea, would he? Iggy fed him nice things. Like skewers and pastries and orange juice, and- and-

 

He’s frightened again.  His breathing is quick, but it’s different this time, feels harder, more exhausting.  He’s still tired from the earlier malfunctions. He feels like he’s clinging to a knife’s edge, teetering, moments from fainting or falling into- something else.  Something bad.

 

He feels jerky, sharp, and the feeling grows in his chest and then- 

 

peaks- 

 

melts into something soft.

 

His limbs feel rubbery.  He feels exhausted. He’s confused.  He was frightened. He isn’t frightened anymore.  He feels- strange. Like when the doctors drugged him.  Calm. On the edge of sleep.

 

He’s confused.

 

He realizes Iggy is speaking.  Blinks, realizes that Iggy is crouched in front of him, studying his face.

 

“... quite alright?” Iggy is saying.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  He.. hadn’t heard Iggy. He would usually be afraid of that.  But he isn’t. He’s just- calm. Tired. The drug-good feeling, the loose, odd feeling.  

 

He blinks at Iggy, tries to pay better attention.  Iggy laces his fingers together, considers N H-01987 0006-0204, still crouched in front of him.  His lips are thin again, his face blank.

 

“Do you need anything?” he asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t… need anything.  He has eaten sufficient food and water. He has the wire.  He blinks at Iggy, who hums, considering.

 

“Perhaps I should make you something sweeter,” he says.  “How does hot chocolate sound?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what  _ hot chocolate  _ is.  He blinks at Iggy.

 

“Why don’t we try it,” Iggy says, “And if you don’t like it you can give it back to me, and we’ll try something else.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t sure what Iggy’s talking about.  But it sounds like he’s making something other than tea. That is good.  That is better. He doesn’t want to malfunction again. He tries for a smile, mostly makes his face stretch in odd ways.

 

Iggy gives him a little smile back, just an upturn of the corner of his mouth.  Then he rises, moves to the food preparation area- _ kitchen,  _ N H-01987 0006-0204 knows this word, it’s  _ kitchen- _ and starts opening cupboards.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 still feels strange.  Blurry. The world feels soft around the edges, but it doesn’t frighten him.  He leans back against the chair, lets his head rest on the back of it.

 

He should start on the wire.  He wants to. He can’t quite seem to make his fingers move.  His thoughts seem cloudy.

 

He’ll do it.  In a couple of seconds, he’ll do it.

 

A sharp click brings himself into awareness.  Iggy has set a cup on the wooden table. It has a smell that N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t recognize, something sweet and rich.

 

Iggy had… made him a drink.  Yes. He is supposed to drink the liquid in the cup.

 

Iggy is looking at him expectantly.  That, for some reason, makes it easier to move.  He makes his fingers flex, touches the cup.

 

It’s hot.  His finger flinch back, but they’re slower than usual, and he isn’t afraid, not really.  He looks at Iggy, uncertain, realizes that he is holding his cup by a loop in the side, a kind of hook.  Oh. N H-01987 0006-0204 touches the matching loop on his own cup, finds it cool to the touch. Picks up the cup.

 

The liquid is soft brown.  It is thicker than water, creamy, leaving little smears of froth around the cup as he tilts it.  It looks like… like oatmeal, but thinner, and without grains. It smells nothing like oatmeal.

 

He raises the cup to his mouth.  Sips, cautious, feeling the heat coming off it.

 

It’s  _ good. _

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is frozen up.  He’s never… he doesn’t… food has never tasted like this.  It is hot, and it burns a little, but- but- it’s thick and creamy and sweet and good and it tastes, it tastes like  _ nothing  _ N H-01987 0006-0204 can think of, it- it- it’s like what coffee smells like, but warmer, softer, not bitter at all, just- sweet and good-

 

Before he quite realizes what he’s doing he’s tilted the cup up and has drank two-thirds of it.  It burns on the way down, scalding, but it’s so unlike the tea- it’s so _ good _ .

 

“Ah-” Iggy says, surprised.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stops, lowers the cup, stares at him.  Is he- can he still keep drinking it? Was Iggy displeased?  It tastes- very good, he would like to keep drinking it, hopes Iggy will let him keep it.  He can feel it dribbling down the corners of his mouth, and he brings a hand up quickly, wipes it up and sucks it off his fingers, doesn’t want to waste any.

 

Iggy is looking at him with surprise.  He doesn’t look- displeased. He mostly seems taken aback.  He rustles through one of his pockets, pulls out a thin cloth.  Holds it out for N H-01987 0006-0204.

 

Is N H-01987 0006-0204 supposed to take it? He wants to keep drinking the- the hot chocolate.  Maybe Iggy will let him after he takes the cloth?

 

He takes the cloth, slowly, a little unsure.  Holds it in his free hand. Starts drinking the hot chocolate again.

 

Iggy doesn’t seem displeased.  N H-01987 0006-0204 finishes off the hot chocolate before he can really consider it, and then wipes his mouth on the collar of his shirt.

 

“Ah,” Iggy says, sounding a little strange.  “That is what the napkin is for.”

 

He still doesn’t sound angry.  He sounds like some mix of surprised and… displeased?  But N H-01987 0006-0204 is still drifting in the soft, relaxed feeling, and doesn’t feel afraid.  

 

And anyway, Iggy only directs N H-01987 0006-0204 on how to clean his face using the thin cloth, which he calls a  _ napkin. _  It seems like a waste of resources to N H-01987 0006-0204, but he obeys.  Maybe if he is obedient and satisfactory, Iggy will give him more hot chocolate.

 

“Well,” Iggy says, as N H-01987 0006-0204 wipes his face with the  _ napkin _ . The displeased tone is gone.  He just sounds warm, now, kind. “I take it you liked it.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 did like the hot chocolate.  He liked it a lot. He is sure that Iggy has magic.  He smiles at Iggy.

 

“Why don’t I make you some more,” Iggy says, “But please drink it more slowly this time; or you’ll be sick.”

 

Yes.  N H-01987 0006-0204 would like that.  Drinking slowly will be a minor inconvenience if it means getting more hot chocolate.  He looks at Iggy, feeling a little brighter. 

 

And Iggy makes him more hot chocolate.

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t get much work done.  He still feels tired, despite having not done any physical activity.  His hands feel slow and heavy, a little clumsy. He ends up doing work in little bursts, stopping to sip hot chocolate and just sort of… sit still, looking at the wire in his hands.

 

Iggy does a lot of writing at the table.  N H-01987 0006-0204 has really only seen writing in guards’ reports and when the doctors took physical notes.  Orders were only written down if they couldn’t be transmitted.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 has never physically written.  He understands the concept, and he can read enough that he thinks he could write fairly efficiently if given a short time to practice.  It was just… drawing letters. He could do that.

 

He can’t now.  But maybe, after Aranea comes back, he can start learning.

 

\---

 

At some point his head starts to drift lower.  He jerks it back up. After a few minutes it starts to drift lower again.  His eyelids feel heavy.

 

Iggy hums, flips over a page.  Looks at his phone for a second, puts it back down.

 

“I have to go fetch Noct soon,” he says.  “Would you like to take a nap on the couch in the meantime?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what  _ nap  _ is.  He blinks at Iggy, feels muzzy.

 

“You are, of course, welcome to accompany me if you prefer,” Iggy says.  “Although I rather think sleep will do you good. And I won’t be gone longer than half an hour.”

N H-01987 0006-0204 is still confused.  Iggy is… going somewhere. And suggesting he stay here and- sleep?  On the couch, like he did at Hammerhead.

 

Sleep does sound nice.  And half an hour isn’t long.

 

He blinks at Iggy.  Gets to his feet. Goes to the couch.  Sits.

 

This seems like the right answer, because Iggy gets to his feet and starts moving around, picking up some things, doing- human activities, the ones they do when they prepare for travel.  Fetching a jacket, keys.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 unties his boots.  Takes them off. Puts them by the head of the couch, where he can grab them quickly if he needs to.

 

His head feels heavier.  He wants to stay awake until Iggy leaves.  That’s important. It’s important to be aware of living things near him, important to keep track of them until he can more certainly predict their actions.

 

He leans against the arm of the couch.  It is very soft. It feels like- like being held, a little bit.  He lays his head against the back.

 

He’ll lay down when Iggy leaves.  He’ll stay awake until Iggy goes, and then he’ll lay down and sleep.

 

He closes his eyes.

 

\---

 

He dreams:

 

He holds the lance two-handed.  It feels unfamiliar against his hands and yet familiar in his head, Aranea’s knowledge overlaying his own.

 

He spreads his stance.  Executes the movements for the spring-flip, as instructed by the copy of Aranea’s knowledge.

 

He lands hard on his back.  Stares up into the bright blue sky, a little dizzy, while Aranea laughs hysterically somewhere nearby.

 

“Okay,” she wheezes.  “Alright. So. I’m taller than you by like, a head, so you have to adjust my knowledge for your limbs, or you’re just gonna keep tripping up wildly.  Cause you’re trying to flip like your legs are five inches longer.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks up at the sky.  Oh. That makes sense. Aranea’s knowledge is strange in his head, like an extension of a program he doesn’t have.  It’s developed by her for her body and not for his. He must adjust it for himself.

 

Having Aranea’s knowledge in his head is… odd.  Aranea had plugs for her connection ports stored in her bag, but she had to adjust one for him, and even then the data had been slow to transfer, staticky and sticky.  They had spent several hours just laying next to each other in the shelter of an overhang, the makeshift plug running from her ear port to his, data feeding into his brain.

 

It feels like a tiny piece of Aranea is stored in the back of his head, silvery and sharp.  It feels strange. But also good. Safer. When he accesses it to perform lance-fighting or flips, he feels the memory of another body, taller, stronger, and the echo of Aranea’s mind, sharp and unafraid.

 

He likes it.

 

He gets to his feet.  They are still in Tenebrae, and the ground is soft with flowering grass, tall enough to reach his hips.  The sky stretches out above them and far to either side, vast. Aranea is watching, grinning like a jackal.

 

He gets into the stance again.  Lets Aranea’s data settle over him like a second skin, fierce and sharp.  Thinks,  _ the same but shorter limbs.  The same but shorter limbs. _

 

Tries again.

 

\---

 

“... sick?”

 

“I rather think he’s just tired.  He  _ is  _ adjusting to a new environment.”

 

“I mean, I guess.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows that voice.  He feels slow, blurry. His processes are slow to start up.  He feels soft, staticky.

 

“That means I can take a nap too, right?”

 

“Ah, but if you do your homework now, you can spend more time with your guest later.”

 

“Ugh.”

 

“The troubles of a prince.”  That’s Iggy’s voice. And someone else makes a soft huffing noise, and he- he knows that sound.  Noct makes that sound. Is Noct here?

 

“... So you had a quiet day?”

 

A sigh.  “As much as could be expected, I think.  He had some anxiety earlier. I think he may have experienced flashbacks, but I’m not sure.”

 

“Flashbacks to- what?”

 

“I couldn’t say.”  

 

There’s silence for a while.  N H-01987 0006-0204 should get up, should let them know he’s aware.  But- they might say something useful, and he doesn’t want- he doesn’t have a lot of knowledge about the humans here, or his environment, or what they expect of him.  He should collect data when he can. He wants to be prepared.

 

“What do you-” Noct’s voice cuts itself off.  Then it starts again, “What would cause flashbacks?”

 

There’s silence for a while.

 

“I think…” Iggy’s voice starts.  “... it could be many things. We don’t have any paperwork to verify his identity, which suggests a war refugee, but his lack of basic household knowledge suggests he may have been- without a home, for a while before that.  Or kept in tight confines.”

 

“Like- what,” Noct’s voice says.  He sounds angry.

 

“A domestic situation, perhaps,” Iggy’s voice says.  “He may have been neglected, or deliberately uneducated.  That is perhaps the very best scenario.”

 

“What’s the  _ worst?” _ Noct says, and he sounds- upset.  Angry, and pained. N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t want Noct to be upset.  Noct was- something. Good. N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest feels hollow when he thinks about Noct’s voice, small.

 

His processes are suddenly easier to start.  His head clears, and he fumbles up to a sitting position, looks over the edge of the couch to see Iggy and Noct looking at him with surprise.

 

“Oh, hey,” Noct says, sounding startled.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stumbles to his feet, rounds the couch so he can walk to Noct.

 

“Pardon us-” Iggy says, but N H-01987 0006-0204 is already reaching out to Noct.  He curls his hand in a fist, does friendly-shoulder-punch. Noct stumbles, looking startled, then he makes a sort-of-smile, weak on his face.  Beside him, Iggy stops speaking. That’s okay. N H-01987 0006-0204 is attending to Noct, and then he can attend to Iggy.

 

“Hey, uh,” Noct says, “Sorry about- that.  We were just worried.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know why Noct is apologizing.  The friendly-shoulder-punch was supposed to make him better.  Maybe he performed it incorrectly?

 

He examines his knuckles, confirms they are in working order.  Friendly-punches Noct again, trying a slightly different angle.

 

“Okay, okay,” Noct says, and he’s huffing a laugh.  He’s wearing a bag slung across his shoulders, but he slides it to the ground and returns the friendly-shoulder punch.  “So, not a big deal, then?”

 

Noct seems lighter now.  That is good. N H-01987 0006-0204 decides that his mood is acceptable.  Wonders how to stabilize it at acceptable. Maybe the simulations? Noct seemed happy when they were working through the simulations.

 

“Are you feeling better?” Iggy asks.  It takes N H-01987 0006-0204 a moment to realize he’s talking to him, and then another moment to process the question.  Yes. He is feeling- better. Less tired. His processes are still settling into place, making him feel a little unreal, but he thinks they’ll click together in a few minutes and he’ll be functioning correctly.

 

He blinks at Iggy, who gives him the small, gentle smile again.

 

“Well,” Iggy says. “Noct has to do his homework, but after that I’m sure there’s plenty you two can do.  I’ll be in the kitchen making dinner.”

 

“Without vegetables.”

 

“You are welcome to believe what you wish,”  Iggy says, smoothly, and Noct groans. Iggy turns to N H-01987 0006-0204 again.  “If you need me, please don’t hesitate to get my attention.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t think he’ll need Iggy.  But he stores the information, careful, and follows Noct.

 

Noct sets himself up at the wooden table, spreading several sheets of paper and starting to stare at them.  Sometimes he mumbles something unintelligible and writes. N H-01987 0006-0204 is unsure if he’s supposed to do something, but after awhile he comes to the conclusion that it’s like when Noct slept next to him.  That he’s not really supposed to do anything, besides- exist. And guard, maybe.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t sure who would attack them in Iggy’s rooms.  He extends his wide-area sensors, lets them take up a portion of his processes.  Noct doesn’t seem to need him for anything at the moment, so he picks up the wire dress again.

 

It’s a little strange.  But still nice. N H-01987 0006-0204 is seated too far from Noct to feel the faint heat off his skin, like last time, but he can hear his breathing.

 

He starts working on the wire.

 

\---

 

Sometime later, Noct groans and hits the table with his head.   N H-01987 0006-0204 looks over, concerned, wonders if he is somehow injured.  But Noct picks his head back up and he doesn’t seem hurt.

 

“Hey,” he says, voice low, and there’s something sly in his expression, like the humor Aranea had when she was about to do a trick.  The expression is familiar, makes N H-01987 0006-0204 feel eager. “Wanna sneak out?”

 

Sneak out?  Like… a stealth mission, out.  To outside? N H-01987 0006-0204 quirks his head, questioning.

 

Noct holds a finger to his lips, tilts his head toward the kitchen.  There is sizzling and popping sounds. If N H-01987 0006-0204 sharpens his hearing, he can hear Iggy breathing and moving around.

 

“The window in the bathroom pops out,” Noct says, quietly.  “He won’t even notice.”

 

Noct is… referring to Iggy.  Is Iggy dangerous? N H-01987 0006-0204 feels a little ill, thinks of skewers and hot chocolate.  Then he realizes: it’s a training mission. Iggy was testing them. 

 

Oh.  He can do that.  He wants to perform well.  He will perform well and Iggy will be pleased.

 

He will have Noct with him.  That will help. Noct is human.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know his skill level, but he assumes it is higher than his.  All the training guards had higher skill levels than the MT’s. He’ll follow Noct’s lead.

 

The dress is too bulky to take.  N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitates.

 

Iggy was… good.  He would not harm the dress.  N H-01987 0006-0204 runs a risk calculation, just in case, but leaving the dress for a short while fell into a completely acceptable range.

 

He moves the dress, silently, so it is on the floor behind his chair, hopefully out of the way.  Looks at Noct.

 

Noct grins.  He looks pleased.

 

“You go first,” he says, quiet.  “Bathroom’s just down the hall. I’ll follow in a minute.”

 

Okay.  N H-01987 0006-0204 activates his close-area sensors, gets to his feet.  Watches the orange-red shape of Iggy through the wall, waits until his back is turned.  Creeps silently, heal-toe heal-toe, out of the table-room, across the carpet, to the hallway beyond.

 

There are two rooms off the hallway.  One of them is closed. The other is half-open, with tile- a hygiene chamber.  

 

He realizes he doesn’t know what a  _ bathroom _ is.  He hesitates.  It would be a room.  It would have a window that- pops out.  There are only two doors, so it must be one of these two, and when he tries the closed door, he finds that it is locked.  So it must be the other room, or Noct must specialize in opening doors. But if he did, he wouldn’t send N H-01987 0006-0204 first, unless he thought N H-01987 0006-0204 could unlock doors.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 calculates, finds it more likely that the hygiene room would be the  _ bathroom.  _  Goes inside.

 

There is a window.  He observes it, touches it, find that it slides.  He pushes gently. It makes a noise, so he stops. Considers.

 

There are jars of liquid nearby.  One of them is clear. He picks it up, tilts it, observes.  It is a little thick, the viscocity of oil. Good. He uncaps it, taps a little out into the window slider.  Tries again. It is quieter, and leaves a trail of bubbles behind. He opens it fully.

 

There is a screen.  He touches it careful, realizes that it has tabs on the sides to hold it in place.  He pops them out, catches the screen before it can fall. Places it by the white seat.

 

He hears noises behind him.  He short-area sensor informs him that it’s Noct, so he doesn’t bother to hide.

 

Noct comes around the corner, sees the open window.  His eyebrows rise for a second, then he smiles. Looks pleased.  He does the friendly-punch to N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulder.

 

Good.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is performing well.  That is good.

 

Noct steps up on the white seat, climbs onto the sill of the window.  He makes noise, but not much. N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders if maybe he should carry Noct.  His footsteps are quieter.

 

Noct drops out of sight.  There’s a soft stuttering of sound, like footsteps on a ladder.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 climbs up, looks out and down.  He calculates that he is thirty feet up. Beneath him, Noct is climbing using a series of footholds, sure-footed.  He wonders why Noct doesn’t just drop. It would be faster.

 

He takes the screen through the window.  Closes it. It’s a little tricky to pop the screen back into place when’s balanced on the sill, but not impossible.  He has half an inch of room, so he just has to be careful with how he balances his upper body weight.

 

The screen pops back into place.  He looks down. There is grass below, and other plants in neat, colorful rows.  Noct is about ten feet above the ground now.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 shifts so he’ll be clear of the wall.  Jumps.

 

He passes Noct on the way down, hits the ground and rolls.  Above him, someone makes a high-pitched noise, and N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks his head up, thinking it’s Iggy.

 

Noct is staring at him.  His face is very pale.

 

Is Noct hurt?  N H-01987 0006-0204 gets to his feet, goes closer.  Does he need help down?

 

No, Noct is climbing down now, hurriedly.  He reaches the ground and then rushes toward N H-01987 0006-0204, hissing something under his breath, which as he gets closer N H-01987 0006-0204 recognizes as _ “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.” _

 

“What happened?” Noct demands, his breath close.  He is still pale, but he seems to be shifting from fear to anger to fear again.  “Did you fall?”

 

Of course he fell.  He was supposed to get down.  Was he not supposed to fall? He is confused.  He quirks his head at Noct, who is scanning him up and down, hands hovering near him.

 

“Are you hurt?” Noct says.  “Did you- holy shit. Did you jump on purpose?”

 

He did.  He isn’t hurt.  He isn’t sure why Noct would be concerned, because he’s clearly walking and therefore can’t hinder the mission in any way.  But Noct wants to know if he’s hurt, so N H-01987 0006-0204 has to figure out a way to convey that he’s fine.

 

He thinks.  Then holds his arms out, rotates each one, demonstrating that they’re not broken.  Kicks each leg in turn.

 

Noct is running his fingers through his hair, but his distress seems to be melting away into something else.  Still wide-eyed, but- different.

 

“Holy shit,” he says softly, “Holy shit, that is so badass.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what  _ badass  _ means.  But Noct looks pleased, now.  Excited and pleased at once. He thinks  _ badass _ must mean he performed adequately somehow.

 

“You’re like an assassin,” Noct says, and then, “Holy fuck.  Okay, you have to teach me how to do that. Later. After I show you Assassin’s Creed.”

 

Oh.  Okay.  Noct wants him to import the data to him.  But Noct’s a human, so he can’t. But humans learn from other humans, and they think he is human.

 

He shouldn’t teach Noct.  He is an MT. MT’s did not teach humans.  But they think he’s human.

 

He feels uneasy.

 

Noct tugs on his arm, briefly.  His hand is warm on N H-01987 0006-0204’s skin, makes him feel better somehow.  Less uneasy.

 

“C’mon,” Noct says.  “You’re gonna love this game.  Falling is like, half the mechanics.”

 

MT’s are not supposed to be capable of love.  But Aranea said she loved things. Maybe he had the same malfunction, where he loves things.  Maybe he will love the game.

 

The thought makes him feel strange, his chest tight.  He’s not sure if it’s a good or bad strange.

 

He follows Noct.

 

\---

 

Noct takes him to a series of rooms that he says are his.  They seem larger than Iggy’s, and darker, but still warm. Iggy’s rooms were lighter in color, airy, and Noct’s are closer, quieter.  They make N H-01987 0006-0204 feel warm and sleepy, safe.

 

There is a large screen on one wall, a couch and table in front of it.  Noct makes a beeline for it, starts sorting through a cabinet beneath it.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hovers, unsure what to do, but then Noct pops back up with something in his hands.  He holds it out to N H-01987 0006-0204.

 

“Here,” he says.  He sounds excited.  “You get this started and I’ll grab us sodas.”

 

It is a flat rectangular box.  It looks a little like a hard plastic book.  N H-01987 0006-0204 takes it uncertainly, hopes Noct will give him more instructions, but Noct just heads away, towards a different room.

 

He doesn’t know what- what the box is, or what he’s supposed to get started.  Noct’s expecting him to start something, and he wants- to perform well, because Noct is good, and- he should know what to do.  

 

He looks at the box, hopes for instructions.

 

There are words and a picture on the front.  It reads  _ Assassin’s Creed _ in stylized font, with a picture in focus on a male human with a hood over his face, other blurred out people on either side of him.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 turns the box over carefully.  There are words. He scans them, looking for instructions, but he doesn’t understand the first paragraph.  It’s a report on two people named  _ Jacob  _ and  _ Evie Fry.  _  He doesn’t understand how it relates to the box.

 

Beneath that are more sentences structured like commands, or maybe instructions, such as  _ No more sword- fight your way through close-range combat! _  And beneath that are numbers and letters that N H-01987 0006-0204 hazards are the manufacturing number and date.

 

He turns it over again, looking for more instructions.  His chest feels tight. He feels ill. He doesn’t know what to do.  He needs more instructions. He  _ shouldn’t  _ need more instructions; but he is inadequate.  He wishes he wasn’t inadequate.

 

There are footsteps.  Noct comes back, holding a can in each hand.  N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows. Noct is going to see that he doesn’t know.

 

“Having trouble?” Noct says, and he still sounds cheerful.  “The xbox’s right behind- uh.”

 

Noct cuts himself off.  N H-01987 0006-0204 glances up at him.  Noct looks a little awkward.

 

“Right, you wouldn’t have- right.  Duh. Okay, here.”

 

He holds one of the cans out.  N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitates, takes it.  It’s cool and a little damp between his fingers.  And then Noct takes the box from his hand, walks to the screen.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 failed. Noct is doing the task he assigned N H-01987 0006-0204 because he is incapable.  N H-01987 0006-0204 feels tight, his throat thick.

 

“Sorry,” Noct says, “Wasn’t thinking.  I shoulda realized you’ve never done this before.”

 

Noct knows that he didn’t know what to do.  He swallows. His chest is tighter. His throat feels lumpy, and no matter how much he swallows it won’t go away, and he can’t clear his throat because he doesn’t know if that would count as making a sound.

 

Noct crouches down by something that lights up when he touches it.  Does something with the box that N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t see, just hears plastic clicking and then a soft whirring noise.  Then he’s backing away with a strange shape in his hand, and the screen is lighting up.

 

“S’all good,” he says, and then he turns and looks at N H-01987 0006-0204.  His face creases, looks- concerned, maybe. 

 

“Hey,” he says.  “You know that it’s- it’s okay if you don’t know stuff.  Or whatever.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know a lot of things.  He swallows. His eyes keep drifting to his feet.

 

“Like, uh-” Noct stands, shuffles, and then there’s a hand on N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulder.  He blinks at his feet, surprised, tries to process. “I don’t know a lot of things. Iggy’s always saying that.”

 

Oh.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks, tries to process.  He should know. But Noct is saying it’s okay if he doesn’t.  That- doesn’t make sense. If someone gives him a task, he’s supposed to know how to do it.

 

They think he’s human, he remembers.  Was it a- a human thing? Humans were unpredictable.  Maybe they were so unpredictable that they were unpredictable to each other.  If that were the case, why did Noct give him the task if he could not accurately predict that N H-01987 0006-0204 would know or not know how to complete it?

 

“Hey,” Noct says.  “Talk to me- I mean, uh.  You’re okay, dude. Can you tell- fuck, like- can you- gesture what’s wrong?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Drags his face up to meet Noct’s eyes, can’t quite manage it, settles his gaze on his chin.  He doesn’t know what Noct means, isn’t sure if Noct’s sentence conveys anything.

 

“Yeah, I guess that’s too complicated,” Noct says.  He’s quiet for a moment. Then he puts his other hand on N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulder, so he’s holding him with both hands, solid points on either side.

 

“Hey,” Noct says.  “How about we sit down and play?  I’ll show how to do all of it, and you can have first turn.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 still feels tight, strange.  But Noct isn’t upset. He doesn’t seem… disappointed either.  He mostly seems worried. N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what about.

 

He’s offering to show him how to play the game.  And he says it’s okay if he doesn’t know things.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is confused.  But Noct is watching him, and Noct wants to have them sit down and play.  So he lets Noct lead him to the couch, and Noct sits close, and that’s nice too.

 

“So this,” Noct says, and he’s holding the strange shape again.  It has buttons and a directional stick on it. “Is called a _ controller. _  You use it to control your character.”

 

Okay.   _ Controller.   _ N H-01987 0006-0204 tucks the word and definition away in his head, pays attention to Noct as he goes through other words and definitions.

 

He starts to feel a little better.

 

\---

 

Noct walks him through several other words, including  _ TV, xbox, remote, _ and _ HDMI. _  Then he turns the TV on and directs it to the game.

 

The game itself is like the simulation on Noct’s phone.  It is also very confusing, because it seems to have two narratives, and calls one a simulation that takes place in the other.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is a little confused. The game was a simulation. Wouldn’t it be simpler to call it a simulation?

 

It doesn’t seem to affect what’s required of N H-01987 0006-0204, though.  The game has instructions for how to move, jump, climb, and fight, and it walks him step-by-step through each of these.  After N H-01987 0006-0204 memorizes the symbol for each button on the controller, the instructions are easy to follow through.

 

“Nice,” Noct says.  “That’s the tutorial.  Here, do you know what a soda is?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t, but Noct picks up one of the cans he had earlier, shows him how to open it using a tab on top.  It holds a fizzing drink that N H-01987 0006-0204 almost drops in surprise. It bubbles and tingles on his tongue, like acid if acid were harmless.  After the first taste, his face tightens in odd ways and his eyes are wide, and it makes Noct laugh.

 

After he gets used to it, he likes it.  The soda is sweet in a different way than the hot chocolate or pastries, a little alien.  The fizzing and popping is pleasing in his mouth and throat. He likes the feeling.

 

They play the game.  When N H-01987 0006-0204 performs inadequately and his character dies, Noct takes the controller.  When he fails, he gives it back. Noct seems to enjoy playing the game, which makes N H-01987 0006-0204 feel easier about his inadequacy.

 

They play for a long while.  It feels good. It is soft and easy.  Beside him, Noct is warm.

 

He likes it.

 

\---

 

Eventually Iggy opens the door, looking annoyed, and herds them back to his rooms.  He’s made something that smells good, spiced grains he calls _ rice _ mixed with chunks of pepper and strips of meat.  It tastes good, in a different way than the hot chocolate or the skewers.  N H-01987 0006-0204 likes it.

 

Noct puts some of his peppers on N H-01987 0006-0204’s plate whenever Iggy turns away.  N H-01987 0006-0204 puts meat on his so Noct still gets the appropriate amount of sustenance.

 

At some point, Noct says, “Did Gladio have a date or something?” and Iggy replies, “He is occupied tonight.”  It’s the only mention of Gladio.

 

After dinner, Iggy goes to the kitchen and comes back with something that looks a little like the pastries did, but with something soft and creamy inside.  They taste good. N H-01987 0006-0204 likes them and eats several. Noct eats a couple and says, “I dunno, they were tarter. Not quite?” and Iggy hums.

 

They spend a long time there.  Iggy makes Noct write on paper again, while Noct groans and complains, and N H-01987 0006-0204 works with wire.  The dress is coming along slowly. He almost has the basic shape down, the wire dress form.

 

Eventually he starts to tire.  Noct gets quieter too, seems to be slowing down.  At some point Iggy rests his hand on N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulder and says, “Why don’t you turn in for the evening?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what that means.  But Iggy herds him to his feet, directs him to collect his wire.

 

Iggy and Noct both walk with him back to the room he woke up in.  It is approaching the end of human’s active period, so N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks that they probably expect him to go to sleep.

 

Noct looks up and down the room when they get there, wanders into the hygiene chamber and back out.  Iggy, for his part, straightens the covers on the bed.

 

“It’s kinda small,” Noct says.

 

“Less to have to adjust to,” Iggy says, calm, and then he turns and smiles at N H-01987 0006-0204.  “Well. Will you be alright here for the night?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 will be alright.  He smiles at Iggy.

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow after school,” Noct says.  He sidles up to N H-01987 0006-0204, leans on him, gentle.  N H-01987 0006-0204 leans back to support his weight. Noct looks pleased.  “We can get more gaming hours in.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks he means the game.  He would like that. The game had clear instructions, and the difficulty level was pleasing.  Enough to make him think, not enough to overwhelm. He smiles at Noct too.

 

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Iggy says.  Noct peels away from him, looking a little sheepish.  He waves when they leave, and Iggy closes the door behind them, and N H-01987 0006-0204 is alone.

 

He looks around the room.  It is empty, but he feels- good.  Usually when he was alone he felt strange, hollow, a little afraid.  But he still feels warm. He can still hear Noct’s voice in his ear, laughing, can still taste the faint echo of hot chocolate on his tongue.

 

He sits on the bed.  Unties his shoes. Lays there, looking at the ceiling.

 

Goes to sleep.

 

\---

 

He dreams:

 

It is late afternoon.  He is supposed to be asleep.  He was asleep, but there was an absence, a faint cool area to his left, so now he is awake.

 

They were camped in the hollow space beneath a tree, protected from the wind and sun.  The soft imprint in the dirt where Aranea had been sleeping is empty.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows that Aranea wakes up and goes out sometimes.  She would return. He should stay here.

 

He gets up anyway.  Crawls out in the warm sunlight.  It itches and bites at his skin, and he shuffles into the shade, looks around.

 

Aranea is sitting not too far away, on a rock.  Her hair is dappled with sunlight, silver patterns on steel hair.  He walks over to her, sees that she’s holding a radio that crackles and spits, while she listens with flat, hard eyes.

 

She glances back at him as he approaches and her face softens a little. 

 

“Hey, robo-boy,” she says.  She looks back at her radio, and N H-01987 0006-0204 comes and sits beside her.  “What are you doing up?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t doing anything.  “You were gone,” he says in explanation.

 

She nods, understands.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stays beside her while she listens to the crackling radio.  He can hear noises through it, but it seems nonsensical, long strings of a monotone sound broken up into parts.

 

He wants to know why Aranea is awake.  Aranea told him to ask if he was confused, so he slowly works up the ability to ask, fighting down the reflexive illness in his stomach.

 

“Why are you awake?” he asks, finally.

 

Aranea hums, listens for another minute.  Then says, “I got a radio call. A man I work with sends them out for blind pick-up, so he won’t know if I miss them.  So I gotta catch them the first time.”

 

Oh.  That does make sense.  He tilts his head one way, then the other, listening.  Tries to hear the man’s voice. Only hears the monotone sounds.  It must be a code then, but he doesn’t recognize it. Runs it through all of his databases.  It matches nothing.

 

“It’s a code,” he states, in case Aranea will provide more information.

 

“Yeah,” Aranea says.  Then she reaches around to tap at his head with her knuckles, gentle and knobbly.  “Hush up, you.”

 

Oh.  She needs to listen.  Of course. N H-01987 0006-0204 remains quiet, watches the honey-colored sunlight make patterns on the stone and wood.  Listens to the wind in the leaves, the sounds of birds.

 

It is quiet here.  It makes him feel calm.  Aranea is warm beside him.

 

After a while Aranea hums and puts the radio down.  Half-turns to N H-01987 0006-0204, shoves him gently with her shoulder.  He leans back into her, which he’s learned is the appropriate response.

 

She sighs through her nose.  Looks out at the green woods.  N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at her, waits for her to speak.

 

“Hey,” she says. “They ever teach you what the Empire is?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know  _ Empire.  _  He shakes his head.

 

Aranea nods.  Considers.

 

“The Empire owns the facility,” she says, finally.  “And Gralea. And all this land, and other cities and other facilities.  They’re like… the boss of the facility, and the boss of Gralea. They own all of the land right up to the frozen wastes on one side and an ocean on the other.”

 

Oh.  N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at his hands.  Tries to digest this.

 

“And the Empire,” Aranea says, “Does bad things.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Considers this. If the Empire did bad things, why did they own the facility?  Why did they own Gralea? He’s confused.

 

He’s supposed to ask questions if he’s confused.

 

“Why are they the boss if they make bad decisions?” N H-01987 0006-0204 asks.

 

Aranea snorts, kicks a pebble.  “Good question.”

 

She’s quiet for a minute, and then she answers, “The Empire has a lot of power.  They can force a lot of people to obey them. And because they have a lot of power, they can make people do bad things, and they can do bad things to other people.  Like you and me.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to process this.  He just feels more confused.

 

“Think of this way,” Aranea says, and then she hums.  “In the facility, the guards hurt you if you were incorrect, right?

 

“Yes,” N H-01987 0006-0204 says.

 

“It was wrong of them to hurt you,” Aranea says. “Whether you were incorrect or not.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest lurches.

 

That is wrong.  He stares at his feet.  That makes no sense. That is not correct.  He doesn’t think that’s correct. He’s so confused.  Why would they hurt him if it was wrong? It had to be right.  Otherwise they would have just… been hurting him when they weren’t supposed to.

 

“It is right to hurt me when I am inadequate,” N H-01987 0006-0204 says.

 

“No,” Aranea says, calm and factual and unmovable.  “It was wrong to hurt you.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at his feet.  He feels sick. His eyes feel swollen and strange.  His throat feels lumpy.

 

Aranea loops her arm around his shoulders, pulls him against her.  He puts his face in her neck, closes his eyes, curls up in the crook of her arm.

 

He feels shaky and damp.  Aranea’s arms around him feel solid, settling, good.  He doesn’t know why he feels sick, but he does, his chest tight and his throat sore.

 

They stay like that for a while.

 

\---

 

He wakes up the next day feeling a little achy.  He stares up at the ceiling.

 

After a little bit he gets up, walks a little around the room.  That helps. 

 

He finds the vomit from the first night, still in the drawer, dried to a sticky lump.  He takes the drawer into the hygiene chamber, tries to find a place to dispose solid waste.  He realizes that the white seat has a lever that cause it to dispose of the water inside it, realizes that it must be for when he passes solids, and that works for scraping the vomit out.  He cleans it with water from the faucet and some of the cleaning liquid that bubbles and frothes, and then leaves it to dry in the early morning light from the sun.

 

He uses the hygiene chamber to scrub his clothes, the way Aranea taught him, wrings them dry and hangs them over the little rack by the sink.  He uses the hygiene chamber, uses the bottle labeled shampoo with the instructions on the back. It smells good. It smells like the flowers in Tenebrae.

 

He dries himself off, puts his slightly damp clothes back on.  They’re a little tacky with the cleaning liquid, but not bad.

 

He settles himself on the bed.  Wonders when he’ll see Iggy today.  Picks up the wire again in the meantime.

 

Gets back to work.

 

\---

 

Iggy does see him that day, and they stay in Iggy’s rooms again.  N H-01987 0006-0204 works on the wire for several hours until Iggy goes to pick up Noct from school, and then he attends to Noct for several more hours.

 

It’s good.  N H-01987 0006-0204 decides that he likes it.  A lot of his schedule seems to be going to Noct, but there is sufficient time to work on the dress, so he decides that it is acceptable.

 

Several days pass like that.  At some point Iggy gives him several pairs of shirts and pants, as well as what he calls underthings and socks.  He shows him where to put away clothes that are dirty, and where to pick them up when they’ve been cleaned. Noct shows him a couple of different games, but they mostly play Assassin’s Creed, working up increasing difficulty levels.

 

They see Gladio every once in a while, but Iggy seems to be keeping him away.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is still nervous, and Gladio is still very large, but it gets- easier.  Calmer. N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks he’s getting used to him.

 

He doesn’t see the oily man.  He hopes he doesn’t have to, that the year will pass with no contact.  He thinks this is unlikely.

 

\---

 

One evening, while dinner is cooking in the kitchen, Iggy comes to the wooden table and puts a piece of paper down with several words written them.

 

“Why don’t you take a look at those and see if one looks familiar,” he says.  “Or if there’s one you like.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at the paper, uncertain.  To his left, Gladio watches, looking curious and a little amused.  To his right, Noct stops scribbling at his homework and looks over.

 

The paper has a list of human names.  N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at them. Is he supposed to… find names he knows?  He looks down the list, scanning. Wonders what the purpose is.

 

“Did you just print him out a list of names?” Gladio says.  “It’s not grocery shopping, Iggy.”

 

“If you have a better idea, I’m all ears.”

 

“What’s that one?” Noct says, leaning over.  N H-01987 0006-0204 lets him lean into his space, looks down at Noct’s hair.  “Robert? Iggy, he’s not _ forty.” _

 

Gladio laughs into his fist.  Iggy huffs. 

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders, vaguely, what he’s supposed to do, when he sees something at the top of the list.  He points.

 

“Cindy?” Noct says.  He has half a smile on his face, but it starts to twist into a frown.

 

“Pardon me,” Iggy says.  He sounds… something. Displeased.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s stomach starts to churn.  “I should have phrased my request better. I meant for you to look for your name, if you could.  Or any name that sounds right for you.”

 

Oh.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s stomach hurts.  He doesn’t have a name. He’s an MT. They don’t know that, and they think he’s human, but- he’s not.  He’s not.

 

He pretends to look over the list for the rest of the evening.  Doesn’t point to anything.

 

MT’s don’t have names.

 

\---

 

A week passes.  N H-01987 0006-0204 counts the days out on his internal clock, finds that he is six weeks into the year.

 

It’s not bad.  It shouldn’t be bad.  He works on the dress.  He spends time with Noct and Iggy and Gladio.  He has food and water and shelter, and everyday he sees something wonderful and new.

 

He still feels ill.

 

\---

 

He wakes up one morning to someone knocking on his door.

 

He gets to his feet.  Opens it. There’s an unfamiliar human on the other side, dressed neatly.

 

“Good morning sir,” he says.  “Lord Lucis Caelum is expecting you before temple this morning.  I’m to take you when you’re ready.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  He doesn't know who Lord Lucis Caelum is.  He feels like he should. The name makes him feel strange, uneasy.  But if a human wants to see him then he must go.

 

He leaves the door open, puts his boots on.  Comes back, looks at the human, who bows and murmurs, “Right this way, sir.”

 

He leads him through down the halls and up an elevator, and then down an emptier hallway that seems larger than the first.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 suddenly feels a jerky, awful feeling.  He knows what’s coming.

 

The human stops by a door.  Opens it, gestures N H-01987 0006-0204 through.  He stumbles across the threshold. The door closes behind him.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t want to move.  He feels frozen up near the doorway. But slowly, poisonously, something is creeping through the air, settling down inside his skin, pushing at the daemon blood until it purrs, relaxing his muscles.

 

From one of the chairs, a large shape rises, inexorable, liquid and powerful, like a crouched couerl.

 

“Darling,” the man says, his eyes pleased, and N H-01987 0006-0204 can no longer flinch.

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t move.  He can’t move. It’s happening again, in perfect detail and color, playing behind his eyes and in front.  The man is coming closer.

 

“I trust you are having an excellent time here,” the man murmurs.  His eyes are yellow, catlike, alien in his human face. “We are not quite Galdin Quay, but I do hope we are _ hospitable.” _

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s body is quiet and calm, pleased.  His limbs feel loose and soft. It is his head, his head that is terrified, and why can’t he move, why does this always happen-

 

“It’s because your blood knows me, dearheart,” the man says, pleased and oily.  “We are but two steps from kin. We are almost… family.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what family is.  He doesn’t know why he’s here.

 

“Oh, darling,” the man sighs, “Am I not allowed to visit my own dear guest?  You are here under my guardianship. You are my ward. My little bird.  _  But-” _ he says, and the word is so sharp that something in N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks and struggles, “You are quite right.  I did call you here for a reason.”

 

The man sweeps away, further into the room, beckons.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s legs jerk, no longer under his control, and follow.

 

“Once a month, Lucians go to temple,” the man says, with distaste.  “A foolish tradition, to make the people feel better, safer about gods.  To let them feel listened to.  _  Cared  _ for.  A painful necessity.”

 

He flicks a closet open, glances through it.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s legs halt behind him. 

 

“As my ward, you must attend with me, along with the others in my household,” he says.  “There aren’t any at the moment, besides the servants. But the two of us will make quite the duo, I do believe.  Come,” he says, and N H-01987 0006-0204 moves again against his will. “We must get you into  _ proper _ attire.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels jerky with terror, some strange combination of relaxed body and terrified mind.  His body undresses itself dispassionately, folding the clothes and putting them down, while the man makes clothes float with his strange, red sparks.

 

“Black, of course,” the man says, sounding bored, and a pair of dark pants float out, drop into N H-01987 0006-0204’s hands.  “A black vest as well. The undershirt… my color, I should think.”

 

Two more articles of clothing float out, one dark, one a reddish-purple.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s hands catch them and begin to unfold them, put them on clinically and efficiently, while N H-01987 0006-0204 remains trapped behind his own eyes, shaking.

 

He’s dressed in dark pants that feel odd against his skin, very smooth, a little slippery.  The shirt feels odd also, long sleeves coming down to his wrists, a bloody purple color, like the dark red flowers in the valleys south of Gralea.  Another article of clothing goes over it, like his sleeveless shirt, but smooth and a little shiny, with buttons.

 

The man walks around him, his hand on his chin, humming.  His eyes are back to amused, his mouth curled in a smirk. He looks N H-01987 0006-0204 up and down, slowly, like how the doctors examined him, but less- clinical, and somehow worse.

 

“I do believe something’s missing,” he says, tapping his lips.  Then he murmurs, “Ah, yes,” and reaches up.

 

He pulls something out of air, red sparks flicking in and out of existence.  It’s a flower, large and white, petals curling outward, still new.

 

“After all, we mustn’t forget our roots,” he says, and then his fingers are reaching forward, towards N H-01987 0006-0204,  _ and he wants to get away but he can’t and the man’s going to touch him again- _

 

His fingers brush N H-01987 0006-0204’s clothes.  Tucks the flower into a buttonhole above his breast, so the white petals spring brightly from the dark cloth.

 

The man considers him, still smirking.  He looks pleased, and he  _ feels  _ pleased, the weight of his magic pressing down on N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulders like a physical presence.

 

“Much better,” the man says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is dizzy.  He wants to throw up. He wants to disappear.

 

“Oh, dearheart,” the man sighs, and the concern there could almost be real, if it weren’t for the glittering in his eyes, the mocking quirk of his mouth.  “We all wish we could fade from this mortal plane. That’s why we go to temple.”

 

Then he’s flicking his hand, and red sparks are settling over him and flickering out, cloth changing in its wake, until he has strange layers of clothing settling over his shoulders, heavy and feathered down his left arm, like a one-winged bird.

 

“Now, dearest,” the man says.  “We go to worship.”

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t remember much of the trip to temple.  He’s too busy trying to keep himself steady in his own head while his body moves, smooth and calm, utterly out of his control.

 

He tries to twitch his hands, to curl his fingers.  He can’t. He can’t even blink.

 

He feels too large in his own head, trapped behind his eyes, like he’s going to be crushed by the limits of his skull.  He activates his imported data for a right-hand block. It doesn’t work. He activates Aranea’s data for a lance-flip. It doesn’t work.

 

He tries to keep his thoughts aligned, tries to press down on his fear.  He needs to be calm. He operates more efficiently and reasonably when he is calm.  It feels like scrabbling at steep incline, impossible to gain ground.

 

The temple seems to be in the Citadel.  N H-01987 0006-0204 cannot sweep his eyes back and forth, but he can see where his gaze is directed, and it is crowded.  It’s not enough people to be everyone in the city. It must be everyone in the Citadel. He looks, frantically, for anyone he recognizes, for Iggy, Gladio.  Noct.

 

They go to a balcony overlooking the rest of the room.  There are several others like it, protruding from the walls.  Beneath them, long rows of benches fill the room, with a long walkway down the middle, leading to a raised square.  Behind it is- something carved, an enormous image made with stone or metal.

 

It depicts six figures as though they are rising out of the ground, vaguely humanoid.  It reaches all the way up to the ceiling, forty feet at least, each figure far larger than any human.

 

“The gods,” the man says, distasteful.  His face is not in N H-01987 0006-0204’s field of view, but his voice is scornful.  “Depicted to appear more human, to make the people more comfortable.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand.  He doesn’t know what _ the gods _ mean.

 

The man makes a sharp, laughing sound, but he doesn’t explain.  N H-01987 0006-0204 looks again for Noct.

 

The crowd of humans make a constant shuffling, hissing background noise.  There are at least a couple hundred, and N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t even sharpen his eyesight.  He looks over each blurry shape, looking for dark hair.

 

The crowd quietens.  Someone is coming down the walkway, slow, flanked on either side.

 

Suddenly N H-01987 0006-0204’s skin is buzzing, alive and prickling and electric.  It hurts. His daemon blood jerks and spasms, hissing, displeased, and N H-01987 0006-0204’s whole body flinches.

 

It hurts.  It burns and it hurts, like when his leg fell asleep and then all the blood came rushing back into it, but through his whole body, needling and thorny all over.  And with the pain comes a kind of clarity, his head settling in the wake. He  _ knows  _ pain.  Pain is familiar.

 

He moves his fingers.  It takes him a minute to realize that he did it, by himself, and then he tries to move again.  He can twitch. He can, with tremendous effort, make his muscles tighten or relax. He can do nothing more.

 

It feels like the barrier magic, he realizes.  Electric and blue.

 

The human in the walkway is followed by a dark head of hair, familiar.  N H-01987 0006-0204 follows it, his whole chest tight with hope and fear together.  It looks like Noct. He thinks it might be Noct.

 

Then all the people are kneeling, and his legs are bending without his consent, following the man beside him.  The human in the walkway reaches the head, turns. His hair is hard and gray, and he seems very tall. He has a thin stick in one hand.

 

He sits on the very first bench.  The humans who flanked him now stand to either side of him, hands clasped behind their backs.  Guards, N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes. They’re guards.

 

The dark head of hair that may be Noct follows, taking his seat by the gray-headed human’s side.

 

And then everyone is getting to their feet in a concentrated rush, and then sitting.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s body follows the natural flow, seating itself beside the man.

 

Another human stands, goes to the front of the walkway so they are at the foot of the great carved stone-metal image.  They raise their hands, begin to speak.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t hear most of it.  He’s staring at the dark head of hair.

 

_ Noct, _ he thinks.  _  Noct! _

 

“He can’t hear you, darling,” the man says beside him.  “He isn’t tainted like you or I.”

 

None of the other humans act like the man spoke.  N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks they must not have heard, or must not know what he means by tainted.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what he means by tainted, but he thinks it must be related to how he isn’t human, and to how the man has something daemon about him.

 

He can’t stop trying.  His brain feels like it’s scrabbling against the cage of his head.  He focuses on Noct, tries to throw his thoughts across the endless space between them.

 

_ Noct!  Noct, please! _

 

Besides him, the man laughs.

 

\---

 

Eventually they rise and speak together.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s voice does not emerge, securely locked behind his teeth.  It is strange to be surrounded on all sides by human voices all speaking the same words.  Other times they kneel.

 

Something strange is happening to the man.  He is getting quieter and more displeased as time goes on, harder and angrier.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is afraid.

 

Then, as they go to kneel for the sixth time, the man says, “Stop.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s body straightens again.  On all sides, the humans kneel like they cannot see or hear them, murmuring with bowed heads.

 

“We do not bow to this one,” the man says.  His voice is flat and cold. And then N H-01987 0006-0204’s head is turning so the man is meeting his gaze, and the man’s eyes are furious and hard.

 

“We  _ never _ bow to this one,” he says.  “His name is Bahamut. You will know him by the dragon wings.  You will never bow to him, whether I am with you or not.  _  Never.” _

 

The order sinks into his skin like a physical thing.  All around them, the humans are kneeling and murmuring, eyes closed, so out of the corner of his eyes, N H-01987 0006-0204 sees a sea of people, curled in on themselves, like they are attending only to themselves, to whatever is happening in their own heads.

 

_ Never,  _ he repeats.  He wants to shake, to tremble.  He can, but only barely, tiny vibrations.

 

“Excellent,” the man says, and then he turns, looks out over the kneeling people.  His face is still hard and displeased. In the morning light from the high windows, he looks sharp and dispassionate, like a knife, like a lion.

 

“You call me  _ the man _ inside your head,” the man says.  His mouth twists into something wry.  “Very inappropriate. I would be most pleased if you use my name.”

 

_ Your name, _ N H-01987 0006-0204 repeats.  He is still shaking, but he tries to pull his thoughts together, tries to keep himself from shattering.   _ What- what should I call you? _

 

The man smiles.  He looks pleased.

 

“Darling,” he says. “You may call me Ardyn.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter includes some anxiety, some self-harm, and some non consensual touching.

The activities at the temple stretch on from morning well into afternoon, until the light from high windows turns bright and casts sharp-edged shadows across the floor.  The metal-stone carving, of the six humanoid creatures- _the gods_ \- loom over the kneeling humans like a couerl over a nest of ants, unmoved and uncaring.

 

“This is the problem with _royalty_ ,” Ardyn sneers on the last word.  “If this were a little temple somewhere downtown, why, it’d be over by eleven and everyone could go about their day.  But it’s the King’s temple, and if it all isn’t _just so_ then some weaselly little bureaucrat’s head will explode.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks he’s talking about the length of time the- temple- is taking.  It’s hard to think. He is still shaking, trapped in his body, and keeping his thoughts in order is a constant fight.

 

The temple is very long.  The man- _Ardyn_ is correct.  For some reason the thought makes N H-01987 0006-0204 want to vomit.

 

“Oh, darling,” Ardyn sighes.  “It’s almost like you don’t like me.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t move his head.  But he feels his neck jerk, instinctive, because he wants to turn and stare at Ardyn in genuine confusion.

 

Was he… was he supposed to like Ardyn?  That must be wrong. Ardyn had turned Aranea.  N H-01987 0006-0204 cannot like him. If he didn’t have Aranea, if N H-01987 0006-0204 wasn’t so dependent on him, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks his systems would categorize Ardyn as _enemy_ and act accordingly.

 

Ardyn laughs.  It is sharp and cackling and uncomfortably similar to Aranea’s laugh.

 

“Oh, dearheart,” Ardyn says, fond, like how Cindy sometimes sounded, like how Paw-Paw sometimes spoke. “I think I’m going to enjoy breaking you.”

 

\---

 

When temple is over and N H-01987 0006-0204’s body has walked itself back to the room he woke up in, N H-01987 0006-0204 is shaking with the need to tear his skin off, to scratch at the sunsick itch that’s sunk into his bones.  

 

Ardyn leaves after pressing his mouth to N H-01987 0006-0204’s cheek, while N H-01987 0006-0204 stands unable to flinch away.  His breath is too hot, and his skin is scratchy and oily, and there’s still- _something_ \- about him that makes every inch of N H-01987 0006-0204 try to claw his way out of his own body to get away.

 

His mind dissolves into screaming for a while.

 

He comes back to himself with his body seated on the large cot.  Ardyn is gone. He doesn’t dare move. If he tries and his body remains still and even, calm while he’s trapped behind his own eyes, he thinks he’ll die.

 

But he has to work on Aranea’s dress.  He can see it in the corner, with the wire coiled neatly beside it, while he sits on the cot.   _You are malfunctioning,_ he thinks.   _Do not risk Aranea with your malfunctioning._

 

He twitches his hand.  Feels it move against the blankets, and the relief that washes over him almost sends him slumping over onto the cot, and he can move.  He can _move_.

 

He goes stumbling forward, and somewhere in the desperate scramble to get to Aranea’s dress, he is on the floor, his eyes leaking, his throat hiccuping and shaking with all the sounds he cannot make.

 

He reaches out for Aranea’s dress.  He doesn’t know why. It’s not Aranea.  It cannot hold him like she does, cannot take his hand, do all the things Aranea does to make him better.  But he curls up against it anyway, and it digs, sharp and unforgiving, into his ribs and arms, biting through the bloody-purple shirt and dark pants, ripping into the white flower.  It feels like lying down in thorns. It feels like falling into nettles.

 

 _Aranea,_ he thinks, and closes his eyes.  They burn and leak and his chest is jerking with the need to cry.   _Aranea, Aranea, Aranea-_

 

He stays curled against the barbed wire dress for a long time.  The feeling of Ardyn’s mouth on his cheek, oily and rotten, persists.

 

\---

 

Eventually he tries to work on the dress.  His systems are running poorly, clumsy, his thoughts still scattered.  He forgets to put on Cindy’s gloves and ends up slicing into his palm. It leaks black-red, thicker than human blood.

 

He stares at it for a while.  But the pain is grounding, helps clear the murk, helps his processes run more efficiently.

 

He tears the red-purple shirt and binds his hand.  It was already torn from laying on the barbed wire, so a strip comes away with little effort.  It’s similar in coloring to his blood, so he hopes it will be less noticable. Paw-Paw didn’t like it when he was cut- no, Paw-Paw was far away, but other humans might feel similarly.

 

He strips off the dark sleek pants, fiddles with the strange buttoned, sleeveless shirt that lays over the top of the blood-purple shirt.  Manages to get them off, and suddenly he feels- tremendously lighter. Cleaner.

 

He throws them into the container for dirty clothes, tears off the blood-purple shirt.  Throws it away from him and stands for a minute, naked, feeling somehow immensely better now that he is no longer wearing the clothes Ardyn gave him.

 

He puts on a clean pair of pants.  Iggy had called these _jeans,_ and they’re rougher in texture, feel like something that could survive in demanding conditions.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitates.  Runs his fingers over the hard metal plate in his chest, over the access port for his heart and the sustenance port in his stomach.  Thinks of Aranea’s back, the long ridged metal line of her spine enhancement. He trails his fingers over his own, much smaller and smoother, sleeker.  His fingernail catches on the port at the base of his spine, stings.

 

Eventually he puts on a shirt.  Hesitates. Pulls Cindy’s gloves on so they cover the purple-red cloth around his palm.

 

He should work on Aranea’s dress now, but he… feels strange.  Too itchy, too hot and too cold. He’s teetering on the edge of anxiety again, he realizes, the malfunction lapping at the edge of his brain.  He needs to do- something. Anything. The energy is shaking beneath his skin like glass about to shatter.

 

On his wrist, Ardyn’s bracelet is sleek and dark.  The half-skull and fan of feathers winks at him, silver.

 

He goes outside.

 

\---

 

His biological memory of the Citadel grounds is operating too poorly to be relied upon, but his digital memory operates well in these types of circumstances and guides him around the places he’s not allowed to go.  He ends up in the wide area with plants for a little while, where he and Iggy ate breakfast on the first day.

 

The air smells good.  It should help. But he can’t seem to sit still, can’t slow down enough to get a full breath in and smell the flowers.

 

His leg is bouncing.  He did not tell it to do that, but when he forces it still, his heart gives a sickening lurch, his ribs tightening against his lungs.  He lets it bounce.

 

He should go… run.  Somewhere. He doesn’t need to go anywhere, but he wants to- run.

 

He walks instead, feeling strange and rigid.

 

He doesn’t need to run.  He should conserve energy when possible in case of emergency or unknown situations.  But he wants to. Not away from anything, just- in general. Like the facility exercises.

 

He’s no longer in the facility.  The facility was bad and therefore some of the activities were bad.  Was exercise one of them?

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t _think_ so, but he’s uncertain.  With Aranea he had walked for several miles each day and sometimes sparred.  But those had a purpose. Running just for the sake of running didn’t. He had done something similar, at Hammerhead, ran laps around the garage, but he had been excited and his thought process had been jittery and patchy at best.

 

He realizes he’s walking faster, long steps.  He tries to slow down a little.

 

He ends up near the building where Ignis and Gladio sparred.  There are noises filtering through through the high open windows, men yelling and clashing of metal-on-metal.  Sparring.

 

It’s familiar.  It reminds N H-01987 0006-0204, jarringly, of the facility, of the guards drilling in lines and columns, the red-faced drillmaster, the weaponsmaster testing each MT in footwork, in hand-to-hand.  

 

The facility was _bad_.  It should make him anxious, or afraid, or upset.  It does not.

 

He remembers the… the neatness of it.  The _simplicity_.  He knew what was expected of him in the facility.  He didn’t always perform adequately, but he knew the consequences.  He knew the dangers. He knew what to expect.

 

He feels… strange.  Longing. Aranea would be disappointed in him, for missing the facility, and he shouldn’t- he doesn’t _want_ to go back, he doesn’t want to miss it.  He remembers the bright, cold agony of the doctor’s tools, of the guards’ batons, the inevitability of them coming down with crushing force upon his failures, and he doesn’t want to go back, but- it was _easier._ Easier to understand.

 

His feet are making a beeline for the clashing noises, the sounds of men drilling and training.  He lets them, and he turns a corner, and-

 

Noct lands on the ground in the wide-open area, rolling backwards and skidding to his feet.  It’s so quick N H-01987 0006-0204 is almost unsure it’s him.

 

Then he straightens, and- it’s him.  It’s Noct.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest loosens, because it’s Noct, and he is- safe, and good.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s feet quicken, and Noct is standing in an arena, holding something long and metallic in his hands.

 

Noct brings it suddenly over his head like a staff held to block.

 

Is he- is he fighting?

 

A shadow comes crashing down on Noct with crushing force.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s stomach lurches horribly, and his processor malfunctions and briefly sees- Noct, crumpled to the ground-

 

But no, Noct has rolled away, parrying, the long metallic thing now clear in his hands- it’s a sword, fluid and quick in the air.  The shadow follows with frightening speed, thicker and larger then Noct.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is moving.  He is moving before his processors say _protect the human,_ he is moving even before his head says _Noct’s skill level is unknown,_ he is moving the instant he realizes that the shadow is coming after Noct with intent to hurt.

 

There are other humans, standing around the cleared area where Noct is fighting, but they are doing _nothing,_ and that should tell N H-01987 0006-0204 something- but Noct is ducking under a sword sweep caught far too close, and his thoughts are elsewhere.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 vaults over the heads of the onlookers.  Somebody yells, surprised, but he lands and rolls and is already moving, coming up low and fast behind Noct’s attacker, and-

 

The shadow straightens, starts to turn, just in time for N H-01987 0006-0204 to launch himself upward and wrap his legs around its neck.

 

The human beneath him jerks, slow in his reaction, surprised.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tightens his thighs with choking force, knees crooked and ankles locked together in an iron hold.  

 

Somewhere, distantly, someone yells, and another person starts to move forward, and N H-01987 0006-0204’s blood is roaring in his ears, high and frantic, burning with nervous energy beneath his skin, giddy at being put to use.

 

Blunt pain blooms in N H-01987 0006-0204’s calf.  The human has ground his fingers into it, is getting ready to twist free.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 rolls forward.  His weight pulls them both to the ground, crashing against the concrete, adrenaline dulling most of the pain.  It loosens N H-01987 0006-0204’s grip, so he lets go entirely and rolls forward, scrambling to his feet.

 

He’s between the attacker and Noct now.  That is good. But Noct isn’t running, and- why isn’t he running?  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stumbles backwards, facing the attacker, one arm out to herd Noct back.  The attacker is a man, smaller than Gladio but larger than Noct, broad and sturdy, and he’s already on his feet, stance readied.

 

“Wait-” Noct’s hand catches his arm.  N H-01987 0006-0204 shoves him further back, and why wouldn’t he _run?_

 

 _“Stop,_ Cor, _”_ Noct says, voice loud and hard.  “He’s with me.”

 

Across the way, the attacker stops moving.  His eyes are on N H-01987 0006-0204, mouth pressed into a thin line, but he makes no move, and N H-01987 0006-0204 feels the world start to slip out from under him again.  He doesn’t understand.

 

“It’s okay,” Noct is saying.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to focus on him, can’t do it and focus on the attacker at the same time.  “It’s okay. Hey, dude. It’s alright, it’s just sparring.”

 

Sparring.  N H-01987 0006-0204 knows sparring.

 

“Cor’s okay, he’s not gonna hurt me.  We’re- practicing. So I’ll know what to do in a real fight?  It’s okay, I _promise.”_

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  The attacker isn’t moving. The other humans gathered around the clearing aren’t moving either, but one of them has their hand on a weapon, and another has a weapon out, ready, and they’re all watching, and N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t handle this many at once.  He can’t, he can’t, he _can’t_.

 

“Hey,” Noct says, more forcefully, and- he’s demanding N H-01987 0006-0204’s attention, but he has to watch the attacker, he has to-

 

 _“Hey,”_ Noct repeats, and then there are cold hands on his shoulders, turning him.  N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks and shakes under the touch, but lets it happen, turning to look at Noct.

 

“I’m not in danger,” Noct emphasizes.  He looks- strange. His face is blank, but there is something beneath the stillness, like anger, or pain.  But his voice is gentle. “It’s just practice.”

 

It’s.. just practice.  It’s sparring.

 

Oh.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels his knees weaken under relief, and then weaken again under fear.  He- interrupted a human’s training session. Because he wasn’t paying attention. Because he didn’t process that the human was engaging in sparring, despite the fact that he headed over to hear because of the noise of training, and he malfunctioned so much that he-

 

He-

 

He attacked a _human-_

 

He’s breathing very fast.  He has to slow down. Noct’s hands on his shoulders are tight and cold on his overheated skin, anchoring him.

 

He attacked a human.  They were going to _eviscerate_ him.

 

“Hey, hey,” Noct is murmuring, and N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes he’s crying, breath hitching in his throat, and, and-

 

He remembers the little sob at Hammerhead, and the boiling tea.  He clenches his jaw shut so hard that his teeth grind uncomfortably together.  His breath jerks and trembles beneath his hold.

 

He can’t malfunction.  He can’t make a sound, which means he can’t malfunction.  He _can’t_.

 

He tries to crush the fear down.  Tries to focus on Noct.

 

“Why don’t you hang out with Gladio?” Noct is saying.  He sounds uncertain. “I mean- if you want to, I don’t- if that won’t freak you out?”

 

He knows Gladio.  Gladio makes him uneasy, but it’s an uneasiness he knows.  If he stays here, surrounded by training humans watching him, by humans he doesn’t know or understand, the fear will wash over him like the lake water and drown him, and there is no Aranea to help him here.

 

He wants to watch Noct.  He wants to know that Noct is alright.  He understands, logically, that he is, but- he wants to.

 

He realize he’s gripping a fistful of Noct’s shirt when Noct gently puts his hand over his, careful, like he might be something fragile.

 

“Hey,” Noct says, gentle.  “You in there?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks, makes himself look at Noct.  He’s watching at him. His face is still mostly blank, but there’s a little furrow between his brows, like distress, or concern.

 

He is in here.  He blinks at Noct, and over his shoulder he sees Gladio, seated on a bench, bottle half raised to his mouth, watching him with his eyebrows drawn together.

 

Right.  He should go with Gladio.

 

He makes himself let go of Noct’s shirt.  Noct’s hand tightens around his for a second, but then he’s letting go and letting him walk, a little shakily, over to Gladio.

 

Gladio puts a giant hand on his shoulder.  His stomach churns, but it also feels anchoring, more solid, and Gladio murmurs, “I’m gonna stand, now,” and the warning helps, for some reason, takes the edge off the instinctive unease when he rises to his enormous height.  He turns, too, puts himself between N H-01987 0006-0204 and the other humans, shielding him from their sight, and N H-01987 0006-0204 is suddenly, intensely grateful.

 

Gladio steers him away.  It is gentle.

 

“C’mon, Blondie,” he rumbles, “Let’s go for a walk.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 sees Noct watching them go.  He can’t discern his expression, but he can understand the stormy expression on the man who had been attacking- _sparring_ with Noct, and the mixed confusion and unease on the other humans’ faces.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels sick.

 

\---

 

Gladio guides him outside of the building.  N H-01987 0006-0204 opens his wide-area sensors, follows the outline of Noct blur into motion.  It’s hard to focus on this and use his vision at the same time, but Gladio’s hand is on his back, so he lets his eyes go unfocused in favor of watching Noct clash with the other human again.

 

He feels sick, fighting the impulse to run back, to help, to defend.  Noct’s fine. He’s _fine_.

 

He forces himself to stop focusing on the wide-area sensor, can’t quite bring himself to shut it down.  He lets it run in the background, Noct’s blurry shape moving silently in the backdrop of his brain.

 

“Hey,” Gladio says.  “How’re we doing?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t sure what that phrase means.  He knows _how are you doing_ from Aranea, as a check on his current functionality, and surmises that _how’re we doing_ means a check on both his and Gladio’s functionality.  Gladio is asking him for a report.

 

He turns and scans Gladio, for injuries or hindrances.  Gladio is watching him, his eyebrows furrowed, a deep frown on his face.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stops. He can’t- communicate a report to Gladio. He can’t communicate at all.

 

He blinks at Gladio’s torso.  His throat feels thick. His breathing is still uneven.

 

“Hey,” Gladio says.  He’s not _gentle_ , like Noct or Iggy, but he’s not… loud.  Or angry. Just firm. “Let’s go sit.”

 

They leave the training building entirely, wind their way through the outside walkways.  In his wide-area sensors, Noct’s shape grows smaller and blurrier, and N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.

 

They stop in the area with plants and flowers, sitting on one of the flat stone benches.  Gladio sits slowly, movements calm and unalarming, and N H-01987 0006-0204 makes himself sit beside him, his arms and legs twitching and jerking.  It is warm in the afternoon sun. The air still smells nice. N H-01987 0006-0204 still feels sick.

 

Gladio is a solid presence beside him, but he doesn’t immediately say anything.  They sit for a bit and N H-01987 0006-0204 starts to think that maybe Gladio won’t talk to him at all.

 

He… attacked a human.  They think he’s a human, but surely- he attacked a human out of turn.  Would he be corrected? _Were_ humans corrected?

 

He thinks of the corrections at the facility, the electric shock screaming beneath his skin.  His breathing is getting faster, and when he tries to take slow, deep breathes, it feels like an iron band is cinched around his ribs, only letting his lungs fill partway.  

 

He tries to breath slowly.  His fingers come crawling up his arm, latch into the soft inner bend of his elbow, and the pain helps.  Grounds him.

 

“So,” Gladio says, “If I talk, are you gonna freak you out?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to look at Gladio, tries to focus.  Is- Gladio going to talk? Should he pay attention?

 

Gladio’s watching him, he realizes.  His mouth is still slanted in a frown, but it’s less deep, more considering.  He doesn’t... _seem_ angry.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  He can’t bring himself to straighten, his shoulders hunched protectively forward.  But he looks at Gladio’s face, tries to look like he’s paying attention.

 

“Where you lived before,” Gladio says, and N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest lurches.  “Did someone teach you fighting?”

 

It’s… not a question that could point directly to the facility.   _Humans_ were taught.  MT’s were- programmed.  Half taught, half imported data.  So Gladio doesn’t know. He doesn’t suspect.

 

Aranea taught him some fighting, he thinks.  And the facility taught him some fighting too.  Someone did teach him fighting, it’s not- he could say he was taught by someone.  It wouldn’t be lying. He could somehow indicate _yes_.

 

His chest is still tight, his lungs restricted.  He swallows.

 

“Okay,” Gladio says, before N H-01987 0006-0204 can bring himself to answer.  “Were you hurt?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest lurches, his stomach suddenly tight and painful with fear and- something else.  Something strong and hot in his stomach, like disbelief but stranger. Anger.

 

Of _course_ he was hurt.  That was- that was part of learning to fight.  He was hurt all the _time_ , his malfunctions paid in blood and electricity beneath his skin, the humans snarling overhead, their boots coming down with crushing force on his ribs, on his fingers.  The guard saying _again_ , as he tried to raise himself off the floor, gasping and choking on the blood in his mouth, the daemon blood acidic and burning like bile in his throat.  

 

He’s angry.  He’s also- something else.  His body is shaking, and his his fingers claw deeper into his elbow, and he feels warmth at his fingertips-

 

 _“Hey!”_ Gladio barks.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks, the anger flickering out as quickly as it came. A large hand pries his hands away from his elbow, and he is shaking too hard to fight it.  He can see faint smears of reddish black on his fingertips, and- his heart lurches, because his blood isn’t human blood, it isn’t- it’s not normal, and what if Gladio knows?

 

“Don’t do that!” Gladio says.  His voice is loud and angry. “Six, don’t fucking _claw_ yourself!”

 

He’s angry and towering and so large and N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t even pull his hand away, and N H-01987 0006-0204’s eyes burn and leak and his chest hitches-

 

“Shit,” Gladio is saying, and then a large arm is wrapping around N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulders.  He flinches, braces for pain.

 

There is no pain.

 

The arm around his shoulders pulls him against Gladio, tucks his head under his chin, ear to his chest.  The whole of Gladio’s side is pressed up against him, warm and solid, and it feels- strange. Good.

 

It’s- it’s what Cindy did, sometimes.  The- holding.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s breath hitches and stutters.  He doesn’t understand. He tries to process, but- but- everything here is so strange and dangerous and new.  Noct’s sparring, Ardyn pouring boiling tea into his mouth, Iggy’s pastries and hot chocolate, Gladio, enormous and loud and gruff like a guard, holding him carefully, warm, like he was breakable, like he had enough value to warrant care.

 

Gladio thinks he’s human, he reasons.  But his chest is tight and his throat is thick and his eyes are wet.  They think he’s human, and he shouldn’t feel sad or angry or overwhelmed because he isn’t human.  He _isn’t._

 

Gladio is warm.  The arm around his shoulders is heavy and solid, but it doesn’t feel- trapping.  It feels like the hot chocolate, but a feeling. It feels like Cindy and Paw-Paw, it feels like Aranea knocking her knuckles softly against his forehead.

 

Gladio is large, and dangerous.  Gladio should make him feel uneasy.  And N H-01987 0006-0204 is uneasy, but… not because of Gladio.  Just because everything around him is strange and new. Gladio’s arm around his shoulders, his chin in N H-01987 0006-0204’s hair, feels warm, and good.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 leans into the hold, and lets his eyes burn.

 

\---

 

A little while later, when N H-01987 0006-0204’s eyes stop leaking and he feels loose and tired, Gladio breathes a heavy sigh through his nose.

 

“I shoulda approached that better,” he says.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what he means.  His eyes feel crusty and strange, his nose damp and clogged.  He brings a hand up weakly to rub at his face, but Gladio’s arm is still around his shoulders, and N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t want to disturb him, so he lets his hand fall again.

 

Gladio’s hand rubs a circular pattern against N H-01987 0006-0204’s skin.  It feels- good. Strange, but good.

 

“You don’t have to use your old name, if you don’t want,” Gladio says, out of nowhere.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand.  He’s so tired of not understanding.

 

“If your old name only brings up bad memories,” Gladio says.  He sighs, soft, through his nose. “Some of the Crownsguard come from bad places.  A lot of them were hurt as kids, or got uprooted by the war. Or just- something fucked them up.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204… isn’t sure what Gladio means.  

 

“They don’t want to think about their past, so much,” Gladio says.  “A couple of them pick new names for themselves, when they became Crownsguard.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  He’s trying to make sense of Gladio’s words.  He tries to process, tries to listen, but he feels slippery and strange.

 

“Just something to think about,” Gladio shrugs his massive shoulders.  N H-01987 0006-0204 can feel the movement through the arm around his shoulders, warm and gentle.  

 

Gladio is… suggesting that he pick a name for himself.  Gladio thinks he is human, and therefore thinks he has a name, but he’s saying he could- pick a different one.  If he wanted.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels strange.  It wouldn’t be lying, then, if he picked a new name.  Because he wouldn’t be claiming he already had a name.  He’d just… be pointing to one. That didn’t count. It was just… something for the humans to call him.

 

MT’s are issued designations, he reminds himself.

 

 _A name, not a designation,_ he remembers Aranea saying. _There's a big difference, robo boy._

 

He swallows.

 

\---

 

After a while, Gladio makes him stand and walk again.  He calls the area with plants _the gardens,_ and walks down the winding gravel pathways, flowers and plant life thick on either side N H-01987 0006-0204 trailing behind.  Gladio doesn’t seem to have a destination in mind, or at least not one with a strict timelimit, because he walks slow and easy with his hands in his pockets.

 

Gladio whistles while they go, something quiet and slow.  Aranea used to whistle. N H-01987 0006-0204 never learned.  It hadn’t seemed to serve a purpose.

 

Aranea did a lot of things that didn’t serve a purpose.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s throat feels tight.  His face feels warm.

 

Aranea had told him to pick a name, early on.  N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders if she’d be upset that he picked one when she wasn’t around.  Wonders if he should pick a name, or put it off until he saw her again. Wonders how to pick a name.

 

He wishes she were here.

 

\---

 

Noct finds them sitting in the shade of a tree, Gladio’s hands behind his head, N H-01987 0006-0204 still a little hunched.  He comes walking up the hill, his footsteps quiet and quick, and N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest eases a little when he sees the dark head of hair emerge from around the plantlife.

 

He scans Noct for injuries, and finds a faint bruise on his left arm and the hint of another one peaking up from his collar.  His movement suggests mild exhaustion and muscle soreness. He appears otherwise uninjured. It is light for sparring, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks, his muscles loosening.  That is good. That is very good.

 

But Noct’s face is creased, his expression concerned or upset.  He’s being slow to approach, arms out like he’s trying not to spook an animal.  N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t discern what is causing Noct distress.

 

“Hey,” Noct says.

 

“Sup, princess,” Gladio says, unconcerned.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 gets to his feet and approaches, trying to look over Noct more closely.  He balks at N H-01987 0006-0204’s approach, but lets him come closer to observe, and N H-01987 0006-0204 takes a few minutes scanning Noct to discern his status.

 

He seems fine.  He even seems to relax a little, when N H-01987 0006-0204 circles around to observe his back.  He makes a sound in his throat, like half a laugh.

 

“Hey,” he huffs, smiling, as N H-01987 0006-0204 comes around to his front again.  “You’re worse than Iggy.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t sure what he means.  He is worse than Iggy in many aspects. He suspects that Iggy has a higher level of battle training, and he can make all those wonderful, strange foods.

 

But Noct is smiling, a small, soft thing, and his eyes are crinkled.  N H-01987 0006-0204 starts smiling too. Noct is safe and largely uninjured.  That is good.

 

“I can’t believe you got yourself another helicopter parent,” Gladio says.  

 

Noct rolls his eyes, and then he’s going to sit by Gladio.  N H-01987 0006-0204 follows, sits by Noct’s other side. He keeps close, letting his wide-area sensors sweep the area, feels uneasy at the thought of putting much distance between him and Noct.

 

He’s safe.  It’s _fine._

 

Noct doesn’t question him about the sparring.  In fact, if anything, he watches N H-01987 0006-0204 sit down with his brows pinched together, and then fumbles for something in his pocket, drawing out his phone.

 

“Hey,” he says.  “Wanna play a game?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at Noct.  Recognizes the expression from earlier, when Noct taught him how to play Assassin’s Creed.

 

Noct is waiting for a confirmation.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tries a smile. It feels shaky and weak on his face.

 

Noct relaxes minutely.  “Cool.”

 

He opens the phone.

 

\---

 

They play through the same game as last time, the one with the armored human.  After a little bit Gladio peers over and offers advice, but mostly just laughs at Noct when the character dies.  Noct, in turn, grumbles and shoves Gladio with his elbow. There doesn’t appear to be ill intent behind the action.

 

At some point Noct _towns up,_ going to the sprite that looks like N H-01987 0006-0204.  It says _I’ll get that for you, pronto!!_ Just like last time.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Realizes an opportunity.

 

He taps Noct’s hand, insistent.  His stomach feels sick at demanding something so soon after his stupid mistake, but he wants to know, and maybe Noct will understand what he’s asking this time.

 

“Sup?” Noct asks, and N H-01987 0006-0204 points to the word, _pronto._

 

Noct peers at the screen.  “You really like this guy, huh?” he says, but he sounds a little uncertain.  N H-01987 0006-0204 points again, insistent.

 

Gladio leans over, hums.  “Are you pointing at the blonde dude?”

 

He’s not pointing at the blonde character.  He’s pointing to the word. He meets Gladio’s eyes and frowns deliberately, tries to convey no, points again, more insistently.

 

“You’re pointing to a word,” Gladio says.  “Man, you gotta be a hit at parties.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Noct demands, leaning forward between them, partially blocking N H-01987 0006-0204’s view of Gladio.

 

“Chill, princess, I just mean he’s good at charades,” Gladio says, and behind Noct’s dark head of hair his mouth is slanted in amusement.  Noct huffs and leans back again, and Gladio follows N H-01987 0006-0204’s finger to where it’s pointed at the screen.

 

“You,” he says.  It takes N H-01987 0006-0204 a minute to realize that he’s referring to the words the character is saying.  He frowns again, deliberate, trying to convey _no._  A frown meant a negative response, didn’t it?  It wasn’t shaking his head, it wouldn’t count.

 

Gladio seems to understand, because he looks again, humming.

 

“Pronto?” He asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest loosens, because finally, someone gets it.  He smiles, which feels strange to do deliberately and not reflexively. Then, carefully, he tilts his head and quirks his eyebrows, an approximation of a confused expression.

 

“You want to know what it means,” Noct hazards.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 smiles again.

 

Gladio leans back, smiling.  Noct looks pleased, too, for some reason.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know why.

 

“It means, uh,” Noct says.  “Right away. Like, I’ll get that for you right away.  Does that make sense?”

 

It… does make sense.  It’s like prompt, but different, because prompt meant quick, and pronto meant right away.  Or maybe that meant they were the same?

 

“That… was what you were asking, right?” Noct says.  He sounds a little uncertain.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks back to the present.  Meets Noct’s eyes, smiles. _Yes._

 

“Cool,” Noct says, and his face has the soft, muted smile again, the crinkling of his eyes.

 

They play the game for a while longer, while N H-01987 0006-0204 rolls the words _pronto_ and _prompt_ around in his head.  They’re… good words, somehow.  Pleasing. He forms the shape of them with his mouth, doesn’t dare to breathe so he doesn’t make a sound, but they feel… nice.

 

When they get up to go to Iggy’s rooms for dinner, N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes that Gladio is watching him thoughtfully.  It’s not the thoughtful look of an enemy preparing for attack, and it’s not the thoughtful look of the doctors devising a test.  It reminds N H-01987 0006-0204 of Aranea, the softer look she sometimes gave him.

 

He swallows.  His back prickles, uneasy under the attention.

 

\---

 

As they eat dinner, N H-01987 0006-0204 turns his hand carefully, observes the red-purple cloth peeking out from behind the glove.  He swallows and doesn’t remove his gloves for dinner, despite Iggy’s gentle encouragement that he’s welcome to.

 

The red-purple of the cloth looks a little like Ardyn’s hair.  He had called it his color, hadn’t he? When he had picked the shirt out-

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s breathing is a little fast.  He closes his eyes. Regulates it.

 

Ardyn makes him- afraid.  Afraid in a poisoned, rotting way, in a frantic scramble that tore at his processors and made him think and act inefficiently.  But he needs to think about him. Needs to consider Ardyn fully, so he can understand him as a factor, so he can be made more predictable.

 

Ardyn had- a high rank, as far as N H-01987 0006-0204 could tell.  Higher than Iggy and therefore higher than Gladio or Noct. And Ardyn had Aranea.

 

So N H-01987 0006-0204 couldn’t neutralize Ardyn through combat.  His skill level was undoubtedly higher, and he held the power to turn Aranea normal.

 

He can complete the deal.  But… he doesn’t have a guarantee that Ardyn is trustworthy.  That he will follow through on his promises.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know how to make him.

 

\---

 

Later that night, he dreams:

 

He is cold.

 

He can’t see.  His limbs are loose and weak.  He is being jostled, a constant rocking movement.  His processors seem slow to start, and once they do they are glitchy.

 

He will need to report to his superior officer.  His stomach churns. He must report to his superior officer.

 

He is pressed forward against something warm.  Something is wrapped around his legs, keeping him hoisted upward.  He hears someone breathing, harsh, and feels something soft beneath his face.

 

He tries to open his eyes.  Can’t get very far. A malfunction.

 

 _I need to report to my superior officer,_ he tries to say.  He doesn’t think he actually says it.

 

He needs to report his malfunctions.  He needs to be taken in for repairs.

 

The breathing slows, and the rocking smooths out a little.  And then he’s being jostled, something squirming between him and the warm surface he’s slumped against, and it worries something free, cold metal catching on his hip.

 

“Fuck,” someone says, very softly.  And then the warm surface is leaning forward, so he slumps, balanced precariously, and the warm things wrapped around his legs leave him for a minute.

 

Then they return, wrapping something around him, making a kind of sling that supports his weight.

 

The jostling hurts.  He doesn’t know why. His ribs feel burning, stabbing, but crying out is ten detriments, so he keeps his mouth firmly shut.

 

“Sorry, kiddo,” someone says, soft and close.  It sounds like someone whispering near his ear.  “Need my hands free for this.”

 

And the warm surface is leaning upright again, and he’s held against it by the cloth, or rope, or something that is tied carefully around his waist and legs and back, and then the jostling returns and- they’re moving, he realizes.  

 

He’s being carried.  He’s pressed against someone’s back.

 

The person’s breathing hitches, and then there’s a tremendous crack of gunfire.  His hearing mutes the sound automatically, protecting from the worst of the damage.

 

“Ha,” the person says softly.  Then gun clicks, like it’s being reloaded, and then it fires again, turned down to just a whisper of noise in his head.  He hears something in the distance scream, hears men cursing.

 

There is fighting.  He needs to open his eyes.  He needs to ascertain the enemy, the proper course of action.

 

He blinks.  Tries to clear away the pain and fuzziness, tries to focus.

 

There is hair beneath his head.  It is soft, and silver.

 

\---

 

He wakes up in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling, and thinks: _Ardyn has control over me because he has Aranea, and I can’t risk her.  So I need to find something for him, something that he can’t risk, so I will be on equal ground with him._

 

He doesn’t know what Ardyn wouldn’t risk.  He knows nothing about him, but there must be something.  Maybe something that threatens his rank, or something that threatens the control he seems to have over daemon blood.

 

Or- a bigger enemy.  One Ardyn would rather give up Aranea then risk being exposed to.

 

He doesn’t know where he would find that.  He doesn’t know-

 

And then he does.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at the ceiling, dizzy with the thought that comes creeping out of the corners of his head, brilliant and poisonous.  Who did Ardyn dislike? Who drove Ardyn to anger, to an unreasonable and illogical response?

 

_The gods._


	7. Chapter 7

N H-01987 0006-0204’s whole body feels electric.  He lays there in the dark, the world muted and soft, the cot warm and cradling, but he is too awake to sleep now.

 

The gods.  Ardyn had been distracted by them, eyes straying away from N H-01987 0006-0204 and towards the tall stone carving.  

 

His daemon magic had also been- less, somehow.  N H-01987 0006-0204 remembers the faint electric feeling, the prickling in his spine like barrier magic and sunsickness, all the things his daemon blood hated.  And the weight of Ardyn’s magic no longer all-consuming.

 

Had that been- the gods?  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 turns the idea over in his head one way, then the other.  He learned very little of magic in the facility, besides effective counters. But- he knows the daemon blood can be used in magic.  And he knows it feels different, poisonous and slow, while barrier magic felt like pins and needles.

 

So then there are two kinds of magic: daemon-related, and barrier-related.  And they didn’t interact well, because his daemon blood _hates_ barriers.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 has daemon blood but no magic.  Ardyn has magic of some kind, that let him read N H-01987 0006-0204’s mind, and he _felt_ daemon, so he could have daemon-related magic.

 

So the most effective counter would be a form of barrier magic.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels warm and light with revelation.  But the more he pokes at the idea, the more he realizes how fragile it is.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 could pass through barriers.  They hurt, but they didn’t kill him, and they didn’t hold him.  He can’t imagine them holding Ardyn.

 

Sunlight felt like barrier magic.  It felt a lot like barrier magic, when he had first started traveling with Aranea, but now it only exists as a faint itch beneath his skin.  So sunlight wasn’t as strong as the barrier around Hammerhead, and not nearly as strong as the wall Iggy had drove him through, when they first came to the city.  He doesn’t think sunlight will affect Ardyn either.

 

And then, in the temple.  When Noct had entered the chamber, walking below him with the gray-haired human, there had been- the electric feeling.  The faintest buzz in his spine and fingertips.

 

And he had been able to move, a little bit.  Ardyn’s hold not as strong.

 

Had the gods been there then?

 

No, that was working under the assumption that the gods had barrier magic, and he had no data to verify that.  He has no data on the gods at all.

 

He needs data on the gods.

 

Where would he get that?  He couldn’t ask for it. He could only really speak to Ardyn, and asking him about the gods might arouse his suspicion or his anger.  And the idea of being in Ardyn’s presence- the thought of seeking him out _willingly_ \- makes his stomach churn.

 

There’s the research device, the phone.  But it is hidden underneath the floorboard of a shack miles away, far out of reach.  He wishes, he _wishes_ he hadn’t left it there when he followed Cindy, out of the wilds and into the human world.

 

He must work with his mistake.  He must gather information on _the gods_ on his own.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 licks his lips.  Starts to plan.

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 can gather data in several ways.

 

He has ports for importing data, but they require plugs.  He can adjust an existing one, if it has all the right wires, but the only plugs he’s seen in the Citadel are the ones in Noct’s room connecting the TV and the xbox.  Destroying those would mean Noct wouldn’t get to play his simulations, and it would only connect him to the xbox anyway. N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know if the xbox can research like the phone.

 

All the data that he hasn’t imported- all his _learned_ data- he has obtained through a collection of methods, none of which work with one hundred percent accuracy.  The training guards taught them learning methods but said prioritize imported data. But… there’s little other choice, here.  And Aranea had always seemed to prefer it.

 

His learned data he gathers from observation.  This relies on his biological parts, so he double checks it when he can, but he must proceed under the assumption that the data is not entirely accurate.

  


He must go where his biological parts can observe the gods, or observe something affiliated with them.

 

There is Ardyn, but he wants to avoid that if at all possible.  There is the temple.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 considers.  He remembers Iggy’s tour, early on, and knows it opens at 6:00 hours to the Citadel residents and locks again at 24:00.  He is permitted to enter during those hours.

 

He checks his internal clock.  It is 3:34. There is no point in getting up now.  He should continue resting so he performs well and without exhaustion.

 

He… can’t.  There is energy beneath his skin.  He feels strange, electric and awake, and he lies in the large cot, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep.  His hands roll the blanket between his fingers. He feels too warm, but when he kicks the blanket off he feels too cold.

 

His biological parts believe an hour has passed, but when he checks his internal clock, it has only been four minutes and thirty-four seconds.  He double-checks, his heart sinking, but the number remains the same. His biological parts must be malfunctioning.

 

He can’t do anything about it now.  He can’t report his malfunctions to any superior, besides Ardyn, maybe, and the thought makes his stomach roil.  So he’ll just… work with it, like he does with every other malfunction he has.

 

The doctors had been able to fix some of his malfunctions, when they happened back at the facility.  But even the thought of them makes his stomach surge, makes him see flashes of light and metal that aren’t really there, his fingers shaking and spit suddenly too thick in his throat.  He hasn’t seen a doctor for over a year now, and it makes feel stupidly lightheaded and good. Relieved.

 

Ardyn had promised no doctors.  N H-01987 0006-0204 hates that he feels grateful.

 

\---

 

He dreams:

 

“You’d like my boss,” Aranea is saying.  She grins, and her teeth are sharp and her hair is silver, and she looks like a daemon, like a human, like a star, bright and beautiful.  “He’s a grouchy bastard.”

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wakes up coughing.

 

His mouth feels strange, dry, his spit too thick.  Behind his closed eyelids he can still see Aranea’s smile, still feel the wonder and awe in his chest, the thought that she is too bright to look at.

 

He blinks his eyes open.  Stares at the ceiling. His biological parts take a few moments to remember where he is.

 

He is… at the Citadel.  Aranea is gone.

 

His throat hurts.  His eyes feel strange, burning and heavy.   He’s going to get her back, he knows that. He’s going to finish the wire dress and throw it over her, thorny and metal, so she’ll shed her feathers and be human again.  It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be _fine._

 

He needs to get up.  He needs to find the gods, to learn about them, to find something that will insure Ardyn will keep his promises.  

 

He lies there for a while.  His biological parts think no time is passing, but they’re malfunctioning, and he can’t bring himself to check his internal clock.

 

Eventually he gets up.  Puts on shoes. Leaves to go to temple.

 

Behind him, Aranea’s dress leans against the wooden storage unit, rusty and tangled.

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels the temple, faintly, before he enters.

 

It’s like… the sunlight, the itching under his skin as his daemon blood grumbled and protested.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is still inside, in the cool shade of the little hallway Ardyn had led him down the first time, but he feels a tingling in his fingers and toes, faint, and the need to scratch.

 

When he enters, it intensifies.  It’s not overwhelming, but it’s more than what he remembered.  For a moment he stands there, confused, his skin itchy and his spine tense.

 

Oh, it’s… probably because of Ardyn.  His body felt so _relaxed_ around him, daemon blood purring and satisfied.  Now, without him to dull the magic of the temple, it creeps and prickles in N H-01987 0006-0204’s hands.

 

That’s not so bad.  The prickling is bearable.  N H-01987 0006-0204 vastly prefers this over being in Ardyn’s presence.

 

The temple is larger than he remembers, and quieter.  He hadn’t gotten a good look before, his senses too distorted and dulled by fear.  Now it seems larger and empty. And… strange, not quite real, somehow grander and deeper than the outside world.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tilts his head one way, then the other, trying to put words to the feeling. He thinks it might be another malfunction, making him feel strange and small.  He swallows and tries to ignore it.

 

His footsteps, even as soft as he can make them, make faint echos against the stone floor.  The walls are towering, made of some pale stone, and carved into patterns. The long benches stretch to either side, dark, shiny wood.  The ground is cool even beneath his shoes.

 

Far across the chamber, the carved statue rises.  It seems so much larger, here from the ground floor, the gods’ faces tilted upward towards the ceiling.  There are six of them, towering over the rest of the room, the little podium dwarfed at their feet.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  Ardyn said these were… depictions of the gods.  N H-01987 0006-0204 knows that _depiction_ means something like pictures, or names, something that means the gods without actually being them.  So: the carving is not the gods, but it could provide contextual data about them.

 

He makes his way across the long, echoing chamber to better inspect it.  The temple is empty besides him, the air cool and silent. His footsteps are still audible, faintly, and his breath seems impossibly loud.

 

The gods stretch upward, depicted like they are rising out of the stone, their gazes cool, expressionless. There are arranged in a kind of pyramid, three at the bottom, two more sprouting out from behind those, and one rising high above the others, enormous, batlike wings stretched to either side.

 

They look like they could move at any moment.  N H-01987 0006-0204 knows this would be impossible, but his skin itches and jitters and he can’t tell how much is the magic and how much is nervousness.

 

The three gods at the bottom appear vaguely masculine.  He observes each one carefully, but only finds himself more confused as he goes.

 

The one in the middle is thick-set, his brow jutting forward over his eyes, his chin hard and square.  His skin is cracked, and at first N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks the carving is in disrepair, but as he looks closer he realizes that the canyons and ridges in his skin are clean edged, too neat to be anything but deliberate.  His nose is broad and flat. He has no hair. His chest is broad and his arms are thick with muscle. He looks a little like Gladio.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 considers this.  Maybe this was a depiction of Gladio?  Maybe Gladio was part of _the gods._  But no, Ardyn had said that they were depicted as human, to make the people more comfortable, which meant that their other forms made humans uncomfortable.

 

Gladio makes N H-01987 0006-0204 uncomfortable, sometimes.  But N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t human. Noct and Iggy are human, and they are comfortable around Gladio.  So Gladio isn’t one of the gods.

 

The god to the left of the large, cracked-skin god is strange, seems to be made up of long, shapeless leaves, flowing up and away.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stares, tries to discern what they are meant to be. This one is also vaguely masculine, its chest flat and its waist square, but its form is too textured and covered with the long conal and triangular shapes to be sure.  It looks… almost half-melted.

 

The god to the right is an old man.  His back is straight, but his face is wrinkled into folds like Paw-Paw’s, his hands leathery and frail from where they emerge from his long sleeves.  He has the long hair humans sometimes grew from their faces, flowing down his chin and chest. One hand grips a long weapon, like a lance, but if the blade were removed and replaced with a sphere.  He is wearing a- blanket, maybe. N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks it might be a type of dress.

 

The two gods that make up the second tier appear feminine, waists rounded and shoulders narrow, but the similarities end there.  The one on the right is sharp and narrow eyed, her ears pointed back and her hair wild. Her skin is textured oddly around the edges, like flat pebbles, patterning her shoulders and jawline and thickening around her hips.  Her legs seem- merged together, like an enormous tail instead of limbs, curling bonelessly into a powerful coil. Something sharp springs away from either side of her neck. She looks- streamlined, dangerous, and her eyebrows furrowed in disapproval, or maybe disgust.

 

By contrast the god on the left is- softer.  Quieter. N H-01987 0006-0204 feels his chest loosen, a tiny bit, when he looks at her.  Her face is kind, gentle, the way Cindy sometimes looked. Her hair is spread around her head like a halo, her nose a soft swoop and her cheekbones high and rounded.  Her eyebrows are thin and delicate, and N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes that he recognizes more Niflheim traits in her facial structure then Lucian. She looks more familiar, safer.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 rubs carefully at his chest, where something feels a little softer, less tense.  Looks to the highest god, the one with enormous wings.

 

He realizes that he knows this one.  It’s the one Ardyn described, with the wings stretching huge and clawed over the rest of the gods.  Ardyn called him _Bahamut._

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  Bahamut’s face is severe. He looks like… the older doctors, the ones who looked over everything with a clinical and disapproving eyes and decided which ones were too flawed for repair.  He looks dispassionate, uncaring.

 

 _You will never bow to him,_ Ardyn’s order hangs over his head like a hammer. _whether I am with you or not._

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows, slow, careful.  Why would Ardyn want him not to bow? Bowing was done to superiors, so Ardyn doesn’t want him to recognize… Bahamut… as a superior.  Would that be dangerous to him? To Ardyn?

 

The temple.  When… with Ardyn.  All the people kneeling to the carving.

 

Kneeling meant something.  

 

Maybe they… maybe the gods saw?  Maybe there was a camera in the statue, or a recorder, or something that documented the kneeling and sent it to the gods.  Maybe the gods were in the carving, or behind it, and they could see into the room.

 

He could- he could try kneeling.

 

Ardyn’s order is in his blood like a physical thing.  He doesn’t want to test it- if he goes to bow to Bahamut, and his body freezes and leaves him trapped in his head, he thinks he might shake right out of his skin, or choke and lie on the cold stone, under the uncaring eyes of the gods.  His blood is thrumming in his ears. He doesn’t- he can’t test it. He should run the risk calculation, to see, but- he- he can’t, he can’t.

 

He stands under the carving of the gods, feeling sick, his chest tight.  He can’t test Ardyn’s orders, can’t risk- the lack of control, the complete loss of ownership over his own body.  He _can’t._

 

Aranea, he thinks, shaking.  He has to help Aranea.

 

He can’t bow to Bahamut, but- there’s a thought in his head, starting to unfurl, shaky and fragile and terribly risky.

 

What if… what if he bowed to a different god.  The gods were all in the same carving. If Bahamut saw, maybe- maybe he wouldn’t be able to tell.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares up at the carving.  His mind feels shaky, light, running abnormally fast.  He doesn’t know if that would work. He doesn’t know if it would jeopardize his chances of success.

 

He runs a risk calculation.  It comes back as _Error: not enough factors._  He swallows.

 

He could… do nothing.  He could turn around, leave the temple, work on the dress.  Maybe Ardyn would keep his promises. Iggy had said something- had said Ardyn was his patron, the person who provided him with resources, with water, food, shelter.  Maybe he would- maybe he could be trusted to be truthful.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, the silver half-skull and feathers glimmer in the light.  N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at them. Turns his wrist, to look at the buckle.

 

_If you fiddle with it, if you loosen it, if you remove it, I will know, and I will make Aranea’s blood boil in her until she dies.  Do you understand?_

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows, makes up his mind.  Turns to look at the gods.

 

The softer female god, with Niflheim bone structure and quiet gaze, seems to be looking out over a great distance.  She seems calmer than the other gods, the gentlest, and looking at her makes something in N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest feel a little easier, reminds him of Cindy.

 

He focuses on her. _I am bowing to this one,_ he thinks, _not to Bahamut.  This god, this god, this god._

 

He kneels.

 

Waits.

 

\---

 

His body doesn’t freeze.  He tests it, moves his fingers against his leg, and he can curl them freely, tapping them gently against his leg.

 

The relief is all-consuming.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tries not to move too much, tries to keep kneeling to the soft, kind-faced god, but he can’t help how he slumps a little, something warm and soft and boneless rushing through his veins.

 

He stays like that awhile.  The temple is quiet, and cool, and even with the faint electric buzzing beneath his skin he feels calmer, easier.  The sunlight from the windows touches the walls high overhead, slow to creep down, and it will be some time before it’s close enough to touch him.

 

He doesn’t know how long he’s supposed to kneel.  He remembers the time at the temple seemed to last forever, stretching from early morning to afternoon.  He hopes he won’t have to wait that long, knows that he needs time to work on Aranea’s dress.

 

He rests on his heels, tries to keep his back straight.  

 

Waits for a long time.

 

\---

 

The sun creeps further down the walls.  N H-01987 0006-0204 knows it will be a few hours before it reaches him.  The shadows on the gods faces are changing almost imperceptibly, following the slow path of the sun, expressions shifting faintly in the light.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s knees hurt, a dull ache.  He acknowledges it and then ignores it. It is not important.

 

He has to work on Aranea’s dress.  His internal clock reads 11:26. No one has entered the temple.  The gods have not emerged, or acknowledged his kneeling.

 

Maybe the kneeling meant nothing.  Maybe it only meant something if a human did it.  Would the gods know the difference? The only person here who knew was Ardyn, but he had daemon magic, and N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t think the gods have that.

 

He stays.  He has to help Aranea.

 

\---

 

The sun touches his forehead.  It settles, warm and faintly itchy, starts to creep down his face.

 

 _Aranea, Aranea, Aranea,_ he thinks.  And then, in quiet desperation, _gods?  Gods, are you there?_

 

Nothing answers.

 

\---

 

His internal clock reads 15:58.  Noct will be in Iggy’s rooms now.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is not in Iggy’s rooms and cannot assist guarding Noct as usual.

 

He hopes Noct will not be upset.  Noct has not been upset with him so far.  It feels… nice. Safe.

 

His vision malfunctions briefly, Ardyn’s smile flitting across his vision.  N H-01987 0006-0204 keeps himself from moving by sheer force of will.

 

It’s just a malfunction, he reminds himself.  Just a malfunction. Ardyn is not here. It’s fine.

 

He doesn’t know how much longer he should wait.

 

\---

 

It is 17:02.  N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.

 

He cannot spend… all day here.  It is evening, now. His legs are numb beneath him.  His stomach is churning and aching, empty, nauseous with stress and hunger.  He needs to get up and eat. He needs to work on Aranea’s dress. He can’t… he can’t stay here.

 

The gods have not appeared.  They will probably not appear.

 

He will… try something else.  It’s fine. It’s fine.

 

He uncurls his legs out from under him, painfully slowly.  They prickle and burn as feeling starts to come back into them, and he sits, gaze heavy and unfocused on his knees.  He thought… he really wanted the gods to appear. He must not have the correct mode of communication. It must be something else.

 

He turns his head, sweeping his gaze over the rest of the temple, the tall walls in the graying evening light.  It must be something like… maybe the gods only spoke on the temple day, the day when all the humans were in the temple.  Maybe…

 

Something silvery flashes out of the corner of his eye.

 

He whips his head around.  Stares at the dark hallway he came out of, the one that led to the little sidedoor to the rest of the Citadel.  Something moves in its depths- flashes silver again.

 

 _Aranea?_ He thinks, stupidly.

 

Suddenly he’s scrambling to his feet, his legs numb and uncooperative.  His breath is fast and his chest feels suddenly open and bright. He lopes awkwardly, his legs prickling and stabbing in protest, towards the dark hallway.

 

 _Aranea, Aranea,_ he thinks, his heart pounding.  He opens his mouth instinctively, almost speaks, clacks his jaw shut just in time.  Bites his lip, thinks _Aranea-_

 

He rounds the corner to the dark hallway.  Something small and silver and definitely not Aranea is lying down on the floor.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares, coming to a stumbling halt.  That’s not… Aranea is taller than him. The silvery thing is- small.  Soft looking. Some type of animal he hasn’t seen before, like a small bobcat, or a short, broad fox.

 

He feels sick, and stupid.  Of course it wasn’t Aranea. How would Aranea get in here?  How would she be human? Stupid.

 

The silvery animal makes a small, pained sound.

 

It has dark, intelligent eyes.  It’s looking at N H-01987 0006-0204.  He stares back, tired and frustrated at his mistake and also… confused.  He’s only ever seen animals in the wilds. Why is an animal in a building?  Buildings are human constructs.

 

It makes the sound again.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest hurts.  Something is… something is wrong. With the animal.

 

He stumbles forward.

 

The animal doesn’t startle, or bolt, or growl or lay back its ears.  It watches him quietly and with interest. He sits beside it, slowly, carefully, tries to look it over.  Discern the problem.

 

It’s face- its snout and head seem fine.  Now that he is closer, he can see that its fur is paler than Aranea’s hair, probably white, and fluffed up around its body.  Its tail is waving back and forth, but not jerkily, so N H-01987 0006-0204 discerns that it is a conscious movement instead of a pained one.  

 

One of its front paws is tucked protectively close to its chest.  N H-01987 0006-0204 leans a little closer, tries to see if it is somehow injured.  The animal, like it knows what he wants, brings the paw up to lick it fervently.

 

A thick, ugly red scab tears across its pads.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stares. Buried in the middle of it, something flecked brown and metallic flashes in the low light.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  Was it… was it a port? Did the animal have modifications?  Only MT’s had modifications. But as he looks closer, sharpening his vision, he sees it is a thin cylinder with a flat circular head.  A nail.

 

A modification wouldn’t be a nail.  And it would not have been so sloppily integrated.  So… the animal is injured. By the nail. And the wound can’t heal around it.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 should… remove the nail.

 

The animal wouldn’t want that.  Injured animals were always the most dangerous, the most volatile, fear and pain making them unpredictable.  He should leave it be. He should… go down the hall, and go find Aranea’s dress.

 

The animal makes the pained noise again.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at it. It looks so small, and pained, and quiet.  It looks like him, when Cindy first found him in the wilds, tired and hungry and scared, hands scarred and bleeding from the wire.

 

He can’t leave it alone.  He can help. The animal wouldn’t want it, but it would- it would be better afterwards.  The animal may hate or fear him, but that is fine. N H-01987 0006-0204 does not require anything from the animal, so hatred and fear is fine.  It’s okay.

 

The animal is watching him, panting.  Its paw is back to tucked by its chest.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 reaches out, slow, careful.  His hands are striped with scars, and the bracelet is heavy and dark on his wrist.  In the dark hallway he feels strange, quiet, not quite himself, like the world is muted and soft, like he’s dreaming, like he’s back in the lake with Aranea, water covering his ears.

 

The animal lets him touch its leg.  It is soft, softer than the blanket on his cot, softer than grass, faintly ticklish on his skin.  It lets him pull the leg out, strange and boney and warm beneath his hands, slow, gentle, lets him turn it to look at the paw.

 

When he touches the nail with his other hand, it whines and jerks in his grip.

 

He hesitates.  Doesn’t know how to tell the animal it will be okay.  He remembers Aranea’s knuckles against his forehead, remembers her hand on his shoulder, the things she did to make him feel easier, safer.

 

He withdraws his hand from the nail.  Reaches, gently, rests it on the animal’s head.

 

It presses back into his palm, tilting its head so his hand slides to beneath its ears, warm and soft beneath his fingers.  N H-01987 0006-0204 holds very still, afraid that he’ll- break this, somehow, if he moves too fast. His chest is warming, something soft and awed bubbling up in him.

 

He lets his hand rest there for a minute, feeling the warmth, the softness.  Then he removes it, slowly. The animals huffs, but lets him go without protest, and this time when he grips the nail it whines but does not move.

 

The faster the better, N H-01987 0006-0204 reminds himself.  The faster it’s removed the faster it's over with. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

 

He adjusts his grip on the animal’s leg, ready for it to jerk in pain.  Tightens his grip on the nail.

 

Yanks out.

 

The animal shrieks an odd, pained bark, jerking its paw out of his grip, but the nail is in his hand, bloody and wet.  It is whole, the tip still precise and narrow, so there is probably nothing left in the animal’s paw. N H-01987 0006-0204 tosses it to the side.

 

The animal is licking the wound fervently now.  N H-01987 0006-0204 watches, his hands hovering, unsure how to help- bandages, he realizes, he can make bandages.  He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, manages to tear a thin strip.

 

He hesitates.  Reaches a hand out, cautious, slow.

 

The animal doesn’t shy.  It does, very gently, nip at his fingers, barely enough to cause pain.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to withdraw his hand, but the animal huffs and pushes its head into palm again.

 

The warm, bubbling feeling is swelling in his chest again.  The animal seems… very kind. Very good. A good animal. N H-01987 0006-0204’s eyes burn, faintly.

 

Eventually the animal allows him to wrap the wound, tying the cloth off tight.  It licks his hand when he withdraws, its tongue warm and slimy. His chest bubbles and frothes and overflows.

 

He touches its head again.  It is small, and soft, and it leans into his touch, its tail waving back and forth.  Then it wiggles away from him, limps to the door, looks at him expectantly.

 

He opens the door for it.  It sniffs his legs, licks the crook of his knee.  Then takes off with surprising speed down the hallway, bounding along like its paw isn’t injured at all.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 watches, bewildered.  But the moment of hesitation costs him; by the time he lets go of the doorway the animal flits around a corner and disappears from sight.

 

By the time he gets to the corner the animal is long gone.

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 drifts through the halls, heading back to the room where he sleeps, his footsteps strange and his thoughts murky.  His mind feels like it’s dragging each thought through a thick fog, soft and muddy and gentle.

 

He passes some humans, but not many.  It’s around the time they usually ate dinner, so most of them were probably in their own rooms.  

 

His stomach gurgles.  He should eat. His eyes feel heavy and sticky.  He should…

 

“... quite concerned,” Iggy’s voice comes echoing down the hallway.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks, looking up.  He feels startled back in clarity, like he’s rising out of water, slipping from his head back into the real world.

 

“I understand, Ignis,” Ardyn’s voice rumbles, and N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t catch the rest of the words over the sudden roar of panic.

 

Was Iggy talking to Ardyn?  Why? Ardyn was poison, Ardyn was dangerous, Iggy should be nowhere _near_ Ardyn- he has to- he has to get Iggy away-

 

His feet are suddenly quick beneath him, frantic, as he bolts down the hallway towards the voices, hurtles around a corner-

 

Ardyn raises his face to meet N H-01987 0006-0204’s eyes over Iggy’s shoulder.  He smiles, gentle, his eyes amused, and N H-01987 0006-0204’s body freezes in place.

 

He can’t move.  He can’t _move._  He can’t, he can’t, and Iggy is right there, talking to Ardyn like nothing is wrong, like Ardyn is _reasonable._  His back is turned to N H-01987 0006-0204, but he can see the metal wire of his glasses curled around his ear and his hair swept up into soft peaks, wearing the strange silky shirts that Iggy prefered.

 

He has to move.  He can’t. He has to, he has to-

 

“My apologies,” Iggy says, his voice soft and concerned.  “I don’t wish to pry into his medical history- Six knows he deserves to be treated respectfully.  But if there’s anything I can do to assist- any specifics on how to treat him, anything to avoid- I would be happy to accommodate.”

 

“Of course, Ignis,” Ardyn says, his voice smooth and gentle, and his eyes are focused on Iggy again, eyebrows furrowed to appear concerned.  “I am happy he is making friends. You are a very kind and intelligent young man, and I appreciate you looking out for him.”

 

Iggy’s ears turn a little pink.  “It’s no problem at all,” he says.

 

“I wish I had more time for him myself, if the council weren’t- well.”

 

“I understand completely.”

 

“Politics,” Ardyn sighs, and then he raises his head to look over Iggy’s shoulder again, mouth quirked in a smile that could almost be genuine.  “Speak of the devil.”

 

Iggy turns, spots N H-01987 0006-0204.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s heart leaps in his throat.   _Get away,_ he wants to say, but his mouth is frozen still and he can’t even mouth the words. _Iggy, Iggy you have to get away!_

 

“Oh, hello,” Iggy says pleasantly, but then he frowns.  “Is something the matter?”

 

 _Yes!_ N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks but cannot say.

 

Ardyn sighs and places a hand on Iggy’s shoulder, his fingers inches away from Iggy’s neck, from his face, from all the delicate soft parts that were so fragile- Iggy turns to look at him attentively, as Ardyn leans down to speak softly into his ear.

 

“I fear larger men appear to cause him some distress,” Ardyn says softly, so softly that N H-01987 0006-0204 has to sharpen his hearing.  “I have been attempting to give him space, to let him adjust, but I fear it may be some time before he is comfortable with me.”

 

Iggy’s face softens.  “Of course,” he murmurs, equally quiet.  “He had a similar reaction to Gladiolus.”

 

No, no, no, N H-01987 0006-0204 wants to scream, wants to shriek, Gladio was different, Gladio just reminded him of the large guards at the facility, Ardyn, _Ardyn_ is dangerous.

 

Ardyn is stepping back, away from Iggy, and the relief in his stomach is almost palpable, but then Iggy is half turning again to look at him and no no _no why is Iggy speaking to him why isn’t he coming away-_

 

“One last thing, please, before you leave,” Iggy says, and Ardyn looks at him.  “Ah, Noctis has not seen you for some time. He is too proud to admit it, but I believe he misses your company.”  

 

Ardyn’s face softens.  “Of course,” he says. “I’ll try to clear up my schedule.”

 

“Thank you,” Iggy says, genuine, “I’m sure he’ll look forward to seeing you.”

 

“As I for him,” Ardyn says, smiling.  And then, as Iggy turns around, he looks over his shoulder and winks at N H-01987 0006-0204.

 

And- he can move.  He can move.

 

He launches himself across the space to Iggy, sees his eyes widen in surprise, but by then he’s grabbed Iggy’s arm, warm and boney beneath his hands, and he’s running, dragging Iggy behind him, running, running, running-

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 drags Iggy around the corner and out of sight of Ardyn.

\---

 

“Hey-” Iggy says, even as N H-01987 0006-0204 tugs them both down the hallway, still running.  Iggy is slowing down, pulling at his arm, and N H-01987 0006-0204 wants to cry. “Hold on- what’s wrong-”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t answer, he can’t he can’t, and they need to get away.  But Iggy seems to have had enough, because he braces himself against the floor and force them both to a halt.

 

No, no, no no- N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks, jerking at Iggy’s arm, trying to get him to move again.  But Iggy slides his arm down so their fingers are laced together, and puts a hand on N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulder, heavy and steady.

 

“You’re alright,” Iggy is saying.  “Can you breathe slowly for me?”

 

He’s breathing fast, his lungs tight, and every inhale is a struggle.  He needs to get Iggy out of here, he needs- but Iggy is squeezing his fingers, gentle, and demanding his attention.

 

“In,” Iggy says, soft.  And he inhales, holds it.

 

It’s- he’s doing the thing where he shows N H-01987 0006-0204 how to breathe.  N H-01987 0006-0204 knows how to breathe, it’s fine, it’s not important, but Iggy only tightens the hand on his shoulder when he he tugs at Iggy’s hand again.

 

“Out,” Iggy murmurs, exhaling.  “With me, now.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wants to cry.  His eyes are burning. He bites his lip, hard, before he can whine or whimper or make a noise, and when Iggy inhales again he obediently copies.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s body doesn’t want to hold the breathing pattern.  He makes it, dedicates some resources to making it copy Iggy, until the air coming in and out of him no longer feels frantic, until his chest starts to loosen.

 

Ardyn never appears.  He won’t appear. He said goodbye to Iggy.  He let N H-01987 0006-0204 run away. He’s- gone.  For now.

 

“Very good,” Iggy murmurs, and his approval makes something in N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest feel soft and reassured.  It stands at odds with the feeling of betrayal, the fear, the fact that Iggy talked to Ardyn, that Iggy treated Ardyn like- like an ally.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 closes his eyes very tightly.  Iggy only lets him do this for a few moment before he’s murmuring, “Can you open your eyes for me?  You can do it.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s breath is even under his body’s command, but his eyes are wet and leaking.  He opens his eyes and his vision is blurry.

 

“There we are,” Iggy says, and he’s so kind, so gentle, and- and-

 

It’s not his fault.  He doesn’t know. He wasn’t there, in the desert by the barbed wire, when Aranea screamed and turned and shed black feathers and blood, when Ardyn smiled like a viper in the midday sun.  He doesn’t know about Ardyn, and N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t tell him.

 

“It’s alright,” Iggy murmurs.  He’s pulling a cloth out of his pocket, reaching to gently touch N H-01987 0006-0204’s face, wipe gently at his eyes and nose.  “It’s alright, now.”

 

It’s not.  It’s not. N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at Iggy with his blurry wet vision, lets him wipes his face clean, thinks: _You don’t know.  You can’t know._

 

_But I do._

 

He has to protect Aranea.  He has to put Aranea first.  But as Iggy murmurs soft, reassuring words, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks that if he can, he’s going to protect Iggy too.

 

\---

 

After a little while Iggy pulls him upright and guides him gently down the Citadel’s winding passages to Iggy’s rooms.  The light is warm and soft inside, the sunset visible in the window over the wooden table.

 

Gladio is half-asleep on the couch and doesn’t stir when they come in, but Noct is writing on paper and grumbling and looks up when they come in.

 

“Oh, hey!” he says, eager, as they come in.  Iggy lets go of N H-01987 0006-0204 to close the door behind him, and Noct looks over N H-01987 0006-0204 more, his face twisting into a frown. “Hey, are you like, okay-”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  Noct doesn’t look upset, which is good.  He does look worried, which is… not good.

 

Iggy gently guides him into the carpeted area with the couches.  Noct gets up, coming down to meet him, and giving Iggy glances.

 

“Is he okay?” he says, gesturing vaguely.

 

“He’s right here, Noct,” Iggy sighs, but Noct is already sitting down on the couch, reaching up with cold hands to pull N H-01987 0006-0204 down beside him.  N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks a little at the unexpected contact, but then goes down obediently.

 

“You look like shit,” Noct says.  He’s looking at N H-01987 0006-0204, his eyebrows furrowed.  His eyes are very dark blue.

 

“Language,” Iggy says from where he’s headed toward the kitchen.

 

From the other couch, Gladio snorts and stirs.  “Whazzit?”

 

“Did something happen?” Noct asks.

 

Something did happen.  A lot of things happened.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s eyes are getting blurry again, his breath quickening in his throat.  Ardyn, and the gods’ silence, and the wounded animal-

 

His eyes are wet.  Noct’s eyes widen, and he lets go of N H-01987 0006-0204 like he’s been burned.

 

“Shit, I’m sorry, don’t cry-”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows tries to stop, but he can’t, he can’t, so he burrows his face into the crook of his arm, curling up.  He can feel Noct’s cold hands, settling unsurely on his shoulder. He can hear, vaguely, Gladio swearing softly and shifting, and then-

 

A large, warm weight presses into his side.  An arm wraps around his shoulders. N H-01987 0006-0204 glances up, blurry, to see Gladio above him, his brown hair messy, guiding N H-01987 0006-0204 so he leans into his side.

 

Noct lets go of him, but his hands are still hovering, unsure.  N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t tell what he’s thinking.

 

He’s stiff in Gladio’s hold, but he feels his muscles start to twitch and let go, until he’s relaxed, boneless against Gladio’s side, his eyes and nose running.

 

“Y’okay?” Gladio rumbles after a minute.

 

He’s not.  But he tries to smile.  Gladio looks back, even, and N H-01987 0006-0204 can tell Gladio doesn’t believe him.

 

“Was it someone in the Citadel?” Noct asks, worried.  His cold fingers touch N H-01987 0006-0204’s hand. “Or- did you remember- uh, did you have a flashback?”

 

He doesn’t know what a _flashback_ is.  He reaches up to rub at his eyes.

 

“I believe he has had a long day,” Iggy’s voice trails in from the kitchen, and then he’s emerging with a steaming mug.  He comes over, slow and careful, and kneels beside the couch. Offers N H-01987 0006-0204 the mug.

 

It’s hot chocolate.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks, looks at it.  His stomach gurgles.

 

He likes hot chocolate.  He remembers this. It smells sweet and rich and he leans forward, not letting go of Noct’s hand, to take the mug from Iggy.

 

“What kind of long day?” Noct asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 sips.  It’s very warm, and sweet and rich and good, and his eyes are still damp but he feels- better.  

 

“A stressful one, perhaps,” Iggy says.  “I only ran into him a few minutes ago.”

 

“What happened before then?” Noct demands, like Iggy would know the answer.  He sounds- upset. Angry.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  Turns to Noct, looking him over, but there is no discernable injury- and Noct was only upset when he appeared, anyway, so it was probably an issue with N H-01987 0006-0204 and not a physical problem.

 

He wasn’t here to guard Noct.  He should… make up for that.

 

He hesitates.  Stupidly, on instinct, offers Noct his hot chocolate.

 

Noct stares at him, huffing on a disbelieving laugh.  “What? No, _I’m_ okay.”

 

“Yeah, save it for yourself,” Gladio rumbles.  “He eats too much junk food.”

 

“Shut _up,_ Gladio,” Noct says.

 

“I would hardly call my cooking junk food,” Iggy sniffs, and suddenly the tension drains out of the room, Noct choking on half a laugh and Gladio scratching the back of his head, mumbling a sheepish apology.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 sits between them, Noct’s hand cool in his, Gladio’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, Iggy rising to fetch more hot chocolate from the kitchen.  It feels soft, and warm, and good. The gods silence still hangs over his head like a physical weight, but it seems easier now. More bearable.

 

He drifts in that soft feeling for a while.

 

\---

 

A couple of days later, there’s an animal in Noct’s room.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  It looks a lot like the injured animal from temple, but larger, with dark fur over its face and back, trailing down its legs like a long coat.  It is sitting beside the little table by the TV, blending into the shadows.

 

“Umbra!” Noct says, surprised.  He drops the bag he takes to _school-_ N H-01987 0006-0204 still doesn’t know what school is- and kneels down by the animal.

 

It seems very docile, just like the other one.  And it is in a building. Maybe this was common behavior for this species?  How would that work? Humans are not always reliable sources of food.

 

“C’mere,” Noct says, scooping his hand through the air.  N H-01987 0006-0204 comes and crouches down by Noct, who says, “This is Umbra.  Umbra, this is- my friend.”

 

The animal looks at him with somber interest.  He looks back, blinking.

 

“He’s kinda picky about who can touch him,” Noct says.  “But you can introduce yourself- hold your hand out, like this.”

 

Noct demonstrates, his hand in a loosely curled fist, offered low to the animal- _Umbra’s_ nose.  N H-01987 0006-0204 copies, cautiously, and Umbra leans forward and sniffs it politely.

 

It tickles.  N H-01987 0006-0204 feels a little warm inside again.

 

“Now he knows you,” Noct says.  He reaches out with gentle hands and unwinds something from around Umbra’s neck, pulling out a small satchel from which he pulls a piece of paper, and-

 

It’s a flower.  The purple flower, from Tenebrae.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  It is pressed flat and and dry, making soft crinkling noises as Noct takes it out and places it delicately on the counter, but it is definitely the purple flower that grew in the fields around Tenebrae.  N H-01987 0006-0204 remembers the smell, because he spent hours crashing around in the soft, flowering fields, trying to adjust Aranea’s data to his shorter legs while she laughed like a hyena.

 

His chest feels tight.  He pushes it down, stubbornly, recognizes it as a precursor to crying.  Noct didn’t like it when he cried.

 

Noct is scanning the paper, his expression soft and fond, a smile flitting on and off his mouth.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him, and meets N H-01987 0006-0204’s eyes for a moment, then folds the paper again.

 

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him, unsure why he’s apologizing.  “I gotta write back- it won’t be long, I’ve got most of it written already.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 still doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but Noct has already gotten up and is loping deeper into his rooms.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks after him. Turns to look at Umbra, who returns his gaze with grave dignity, before calmly cleaning a paw.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 rocks back on his heels and settles in to wait.  It’s only five minutes before Noct appears again, a folded piece of paper in his hand.  He tucks this into the satchel and then leans forward, arm brushing N H-01987 0006-0204, to retie it around Umbra’s neck.

 

“Thanks, Umbra,” he says, and then he’s standing and walking to the door.  Umbra follows him with slow dignity and allows Noct to open the door for him, trotting out the hallway and out of sight.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what to make of that.  He blinks as Noct closes the door again, comes back to sit on the couch.

 

He sits next to Noct, as is usual.  Watches him set up the xbox, as usual.  Then, curiosity bubbling up in his throat, he touches Noct’s arm.

 

“What’s up?” Noct asks.  N H-01987 0006-0204 points to the folded paper and dry flower.  Tilts his head.

 

Suddenly Noct flushes, averts his eyes.  “Uh,” he says. “That’s, um. My childhood friend?  We write letters to each other.”

 

Oh.  He knows _friend_ means something like _ally,_ and applies to the relationships between Noct, Iggy and Gladio.  He thinks, tentatively, that Noct considers him a friend. This is nice.  He would like to be an ally to Noct.

 

So Noct has an ally he writes to.  That makes sense.

 

“She’d like you,” Noct says, apropos of nothing.  “I think you’d like her too.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him, disconcerted.  That… would be nice. He likes when people like him.  But he can’t write, so he can’t communicate with her. He can’t even communicate that well with Noct.

 

But Noct isn’t looking at him.  Noct is frowning at nothing, his gaze unfocused.  There is something lighting up in his eyes, something dawning in his expression.

 

“She has healing magic,” he says, mostly to himself, then looks at N H-01987 0006-0204.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks back.  Noct’s stare is very intense, and very blue.  His eyes are pleasing to look at, for some reason.  His throat suddenly feels odd and dry.

 

Then Noct shakes himself, looks back at the TV.

 

“You wanna take first turn?” he asks, his voice bright.  “I just forgot, I need to text Iggy something.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at him, bewildered, but takes the controller.  He’s not entirely sure what just happened, but Noct seems- bright. There’s something lit up in his eyes.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hopes it’s a good thing.

 

\---

 

He dreams:

 

“You have to swallow,” the silver-haired MT says.

 

She will not tell N H-01987 0006-0204 her designation.  She must be malfunctioning in some way, but she will not report herself.  He cannot report himself, here in the rocky hollow, lit only by the warm fire, the snow screaming and howling outside.

 

He is weak.  His mind is slow.  His stomach is filled with an aching, stabbing pain, his mouth overproducing saliva.  His vision spots in and out. He feels lightheaded, dizzy.

 

He doesn’t know how to swallow.  He requires sustenance packets.

 

“I require sustenance packets,” he says.  His voice sounds faint and distant to his own ears.

 

“You require food,” the other MT says.  “We don’t have packets. You have to eat.”

 

He knows _eat._  Guards eat.  Humans eat. MT plug sustenance packets into their stomach ports twice a day.

 

“I require sustenance packets,” he repeats, dull.

 

The other MT sighes.  Comes closer. She takes a bowl filled with the strange mush from by the fire, sits by his head.

 

“Look at me,” she commands.  He obeys.

 

“I am an MT,” she states.

 

This is true.  He can see her port on her bare wrist, the other one tucked beneath her ear.  She is an older version, ports bulkier and made with a darker metal, but still clearly ports.  Still clearly an MT.

 

“Yes,” he says.

 

She nods.  And then she takes the bowl, puts it to her mouth.  Tilts it back. Swallows.

 

He stares.  MT’s use sustenance packets.  MT’s don’t eat. MT’s…

 

She finishes, put the bowl down with a _clack._  Even laid out flat on his back, he can lean over and see it is emptier than it was before.

 

“You must eat,” she states.

 

He’s an MT.  MT’s don’t eat.  They don’t…

 

“If you do not eat,” she continues, “You will die.”

 

He stares at her.  He doesn’t know what to do.

 

She picks up the bowl again.  Slides her hand under his head, tilts it up.  Presses it to his mouth.

 

\---

 

He wakes up to something cold pressed to his cheek.

 

He blinks awake, bewildered.  It is dark. He is staring up at the ceiling of the room with the large cot, in the Citadel, the ceiling blue-black, darkness in every corner of his vision.  The cold thing pressed against his cheek is faintly damp.

 

He turns.  The animal, from the temple, the injured one with white fur, is looking at him.

 

He looks back, bewildered.  It pants in his face, its breath warm.  It is white in the faint light from the window, tinged blue and yellow by the artificial lights outside.

 

It licks his nose.  And then it jumps off the bed, trots to his door.  Sits down, looks at him expectantly.

 

He stares.  He feels like he’s dreaming, murky, unsure if this is real.

 

He stands.  The air is cold and biting in his skin.  He follows the animal to the door, opens it.  It trots through, then stops. Looks back. Waits.

 

It… wants him to come with it.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  The world feels muted, strange.  In the dim light from the skylight, far overhead, the animal looks pale, like something made of snow and wind, not a real animal.

 

He follows.

 

The stone is cool beneath his feet.  The light is dim and blue. The animal leads him down several hallways and then down several sets of stairs, always a little out of his reach, always waiting a little bit ahead so he can keep up.

 

They pass by stone walls with tall, great carvings.  They pass by huge cloth images, tall colored windows.  The world is soft and quiet and not quite real.

 

Then than animal nudges at a door.  Waits for him to open it. Trots inside.

 

There are huge, towering shelves inside, colored brightly and set in long rows.  N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes that the colors are books, thousands of books, row upon row upon of them.  He stares, falters.

 

The animal yips.  He turns, apologetic, follows it further into the shelves, down the dark hallways, books towering on either side.

 

It doesn’t take him very far.  It stops. Nudges at something on the bottom shelf.

 

He comes beside it.  Kneels down. Takes the book it is pointing at with its wet nose.

 

It is blue with gold thread making soft patterns along its edges.  The front shows a circle, light spreading from its center, framed by huge feathers, and another circle beneath that, containing a human with dark wings.

 

It is titled _Cosmogony._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i regret nothing


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter contains: anxiety, self-harm, both fairly minor.

N H-01987 0006-0204 spends several hours there, under the towering bookshelves, reading data about the gods, brightening his vision to compensate for the dim moonlight.  He feels strange and otherworldly, muted and soft, like he is underwater, like he is slipping from this world into the book’s strange stories. 

 

The white-furred animal remains with him, lying pressed against his thigh.  He is sitting, legs outstretched, shelves digging a hard line into his back, and the animal’s body warmth is soothing against the still, cool air.

 

The book is strange.  He doesn’t know a great deal of the words, and must guess based on context.  This is difficult because the context is also unusual, and describes events and people that seem- impossible.

 

It defines the gods as  _ great beings.  _  It says that they arrived on Eos upon an enormous comet.  The illustration on the third page depicts a man, enormous and bearded, towering over a tiny house at his feet.

 

It states that there are six of them.  It states that they each control a domain. It states that they are tasked with the protection of Eos.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 understands none of this.

 

He thinks he must be missing a large amount of contextual information.  But the next several pages seem repetitive and unnecessary, repeating the same information with different words.  He combs through as finely as he can, the front of his head starting to ache, but finds nothing new.

 

He does not know the words “o’er”, or “blighted”, or “blessed”.  He knows the word “Line” but suspects the book is using a different definition.  He half-suspects that the book is partially written in code, but- no, humans’ speaking patterns are long and rambling, it makes sense that their writing would be similar.

 

He is tired and performing poorly.  He should rest. He should go back to the room with the cot, and lie down, and wait for morning.

 

His head feels murky and soft.  He doesn’t want to get up. He wants to read.  He wants to understand.

 

He wants Aranea back.

 

\---

 

He dreams:

 

He can’t hit Aranea.  He’s using every scrap of speed he has, his calves and shoulders burning, his lungs working at triple-speed, and the lance always swings through the air a second too late, always misses her by an inch.

 

Like now.  He lunges, she ducks, and suddenly her knife is up against his throat.  Again.

 

“Nice,” Aranea pants.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is not nice.  He is not succeeding within the parameters of the sparring goal given to him.  He has not touched her once. His eyes are burning, and his chest feels tight and strange.  His jaw hurts.

 

“I am failing,” he says, in case Aranea has somehow misunderstood.

 

Aranea is sheathing her knife, but now she frowns at him, propping her hand on her hip.  “You’re not failing.”

 

He is.  Aranea made the rules very clear when they started sparring.  She had drawn the circle twenty feet across, and given him the lance, and said,  _ No killing blows, no maiming, if one of us says stop, we stop.  Now hit me. _

 

And he hasn’t hit her.  Even though he has the weapon with the longer reach, he hasn’t hit her.  She has insisted on keeping one hand behind her back, and he still hasn’t hit her.

 

“I am performing inadequately,” he says.

 

Aranea’s frown deepens.  N H-01987 0006-0204 finds his eyes sliding off her face, unable to meet her eyes.  His fingers are white-knuckled on the heavy wood of the lance. His chest hurts. He is inadequate.  He wants to be able to hit her, just once. Not because he wants to hurt her. He never wants to hurt Aranea.  But he wants to- he wants- something. To be faster. To be  _ able  _ to hit her.  His eyes still burn.

 

“Hey,” Aranea says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to look her in the face.  Can’t quite do it. 

 

“You are performing well,” she says.

 

This is untrue.  Aranea says many untrue things- but no, that isn’t right.  Even the things N H-01987 0006-0204 knows are untrue have become, slowly, inevitably, true in the face of Aranea.  

 

He remembers her saying _ I am an M. T., _ and then eating.  He remembers her saying  _ A name, not a designation.  _  He remembers-  _ They were wrong to hurt you. _

 

He swallows.

 

“I can’t hit you,” he tries.

 

Aranea hums.  Nods. Says, “You do not need to hit me to perform well.”

 

“But that’s the  _ goal,”  _ he says, the words stumbling out of him, and then immediately clamps down on his tongue.  His stomach hurts. He’s spoken out of turn.

 

Except Aranea only hums, because she doesn’t care when he malfunctions.  And then, calm and firm, “You do not need to achieve the goal to be performing well.”

 

That… makes no sense.  The whole point was the goal.  There was success and there was failure.  There was no- half success. Success without achieving the goal.  The concept makes N H-01987 0006-0204’s head spin.

 

“Alright,” Aranea says, after a minute.  “Look at my face.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  Obeys. Can’t meet her eyes, can only really look at her nose.

 

“When you look at your opponent's face,” Aranea says, “You can see all of them, in the corners of your vision.  If you only focus on a weapon, or a limb, you are distracted from the rest of them. Does this make sense?”

 

It does.  Kind of. It is a struggle to focus his eyes on Aranea’s nose but concentrate on where her limbs are, blurred in the corners of his vision.  He nods.

 

“Good,” she says.  “Second. Every opponent you will ever meet will have patterns.  Every opponent is predictable. Study the way they fight until you can predict their actions consistently.”

 

This is not unbelievable.  He knows Aranea has patterns of fighting.  He knows they were trained in particular ways: _ if your opponent moves this way, do this.  If your opponent tries to hit you here, do this. _  He nods.

 

“Good.” Aranea says.  “Third. Do not aim for where I am.  Aim for where I am going to be.”

 

This takes him a moment.  He quirks his head one way, then the other.  Thinks he understands. If she follows a pattern, a pattern that he knows, than he can aim for where she would be.  He thinks that’s what she means.

 

He hesitates.  Nods.

 

“Good,” Aranea says.  “That was a lot. Do you want me to go over it again?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks.   _ Watch the face, so you can see the entirety of your opponent.  Learn the opponent’s pattern. Aim for where they’re going to be.  _  His chest is still tight, but less so than before, and his head feels- clearer.  Grounded. He thinks he has it. He shakes his head.

 

Aranea smiles, the jackal grin.  Her knife is suddenly in her hand again, whirling between her fingers, and her other hand is behind her back.  N H-01987 0006-0204 readies the lance instinctively, his heart hammering, but- not with fear. Something else.

 

“Good,” she says again.  “Now  _ hit me.” _

 

He strikes.

 

\---

 

He wakes up with a jolt.

 

His back hurts, a dull, constant ache, the bookshelf still pressed into his spine.  The book is heavy and warm on his lap, open to a page he doesn’t recognize. Warm, yellow sunlight is spilled across the floor.

 

He realizes he can no longer feel the animal pressed against him.  He glances over, sees the empty space beside his leg. It’s gone.

 

He can hear voices.

 

His heart jerks.  He scrambles to his feet, quiet, hugging the book tight to his chest.  What if he’s not supposed to be here? Is he? He doesn’t know where he is.  

 

He activates the mapping program.  It feels staticky, and its slow because he has to start the short area sensors at the same time, to see who is talking.

 

In his short range sensors, the orange-red outline of a human is shuffling near the front of the shelves, grumbling to themself.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 remains frozen, book clutched to his chest.  Is he- supposed to be here? What if the human saw him? He needs- the book.  He’ll have to take the book.

 

Across the aisle, the warm colored bookshelf flickers faintly, to metal, to harsh light.  His vision is malfunctioning.

 

It’s okay.  The human hasn’t seen him.  He can take the book. They won’t know it was him.  It will be a stealth mission. He knows how to perform stealth missions.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 waits.  The human shuffles off, far enough to be safe, and N H-01987 0006-0204 moves quietly, his footsteps silent even on the hard floor.  Gets to the door. Slips out.

 

\---

 

He doesn’t relax until he gets back to the room he sleeps in, and even then he slides the book under the dresser.

 

He’ll have to find a better hiding place for it.  There aren’t loose floorboards in the room- it’s all covered by the thick carpet- but there might be loose tiles in the hygiene room.

 

He’s tired.  His spine aches.  The memory of Aranea’s face, silver eyes and hair, lingers behind his eyes.  But it’s daytime, and he should get breakfast at the dining hall, and then work on the dress, and then go to Iggy’s rooms to spend time with Noct.

 

Moving seems harder than usual.  His limbs are heavy. 

 

The bracelet- Ardyn’s bracelet- glimmers, oily, up at him.  He wants it off. The need wells up in him like a physical thing.  He wants it off so much, wants it away from him, and his skin prickles and itches and his fingers clench and release spasmodically.

 

The half skull grins up at him.  The six feathers fan out from its empty side like the tip of a wing.

 

He just wants it gone.

 

_ If you fiddle with it, if you loosen it, if you remove it, I will know. _

 

His breath jerks and stutters in his throat.  He digs his fingernails into his legs, crushing down on the material of his pants, and then his hands fly up to his collarbone, digging into his throat.  The ragged pain feels like the only thing keeping him from disappearing.

 

_ Aranea,  _ he thinks.  His stomach churns.  He thinks he might throw up.  _  Aranea! _

 

Aranea isn’t Ardyn.  She doesn’t hear him, and she doesn’t come.

 

\---

 

Eventually he makes his sluggish limbs move over to the dress.  Manages some work on it. Cindy’s gloves mostly protect him, and the- bracelet- protects his wrist, but he is operating poorly and cuts himself anyway.

 

It’s just a thin line on the exposed pad of his thumb.  It’s barely bleeding. He stares at it for a long time.

 

\---

 

Someone knocks on the door.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s body jerks.  He realizes that he’s still staring at his thumb, which is clotted, barely a pink line.  How long has he been sitting here?

 

He checks his internal clock, finds he cut himself at 0834 hours.  It is 0858 hours. He has been sitting here for twenty minutes, and he remembers none of it.

 

He feels sick.  He’s malfunctioning.  It has to be a malfunction.  He had not processed anything for twenty minutes.

 

Someone knocks again.  His heart lurches, but he scrambles to his feet.

 

He opens the door, mostly automatically.  

 

It’s Gladio.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stares up at him, uncomprehending.

 

“Hey, Blondie,” Gladio says.  There is a bag slung over his shoulder.  He’s leaning on one foot, casual. N H-01987 0006-0204 scans his face, feeling tense and hyperaware, but Gladio has a smile, seems calm.

 

Maybe Gladio made a mistake.  Maybe he has the wrong door?

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s head is quirking to the side, he realises.  He straightens his neck out, but Gladio is grinning.

 

“Yeah, I guess I’m the last person you’d expect, huh,” Gladio says. 

 

That isn’t true.  The last person N H-01987 0006-0204 expects is Aranea.

 

“I had an idea,” Gladio says, before N H-01987 0006-0204 can think of a correct gestured response.  “How wouldja feel about fighting me?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares up at Gladio.  Suddenly his stomach swoops in horror.

 

“We’d go slow,” Gladio adds.  “I thought you might wanna spar someone in a safe place, for once.”

 

Sparring.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 breathes out, relieved.  But his stomach churns. Gladio is- large. And sometimes makes his vision malfunction.  He can spar, but maybe- maybe it would be bad. He might malfunction.

 

But better than fighting him.

 

Gladio doesn’t seem disturbed by his lack of response.  He looks- gentle. It’s the same look from before, when N H-01987 0006-0204 attacked the human sparring with Noct.  Something thoughtful, attentive.

 

He thinks of Aranea.  He’s not sure why.

 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Gladio says, “Just puttin’ the offer out there.  I’m gonna be teaching Iris a few things today anyway; do ya wanna come along for that?” 

 

He… doesn’t.  He doesn’t want to do anything.  His stomach aches. He wants to sleep, even though he has had adequate rest.

 

It might make Gladio happy.  N H-01987 0006-0204 leans from foot to foot, thinking.  Gladio was- large. He knew he wouldn’t hurt him, understood that logically, but keeping Gladio stabilized at happy would still be- good.  The thought makes N H-01987 0006-0204 feel less tense.

 

He looks up at Gladio, who looks back with the gentle face.  Tries for a smile.

 

Gladio lights up, looks pleased.  “Fuck yeah,” he says, and he claps N H-01987 0006-0204 on the shoulder.  “Knew you had it in you. C’mon, grab your stuff.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t need anything.  He’s ready. But Gladio is watching him expectantly, so he goes back into the room and looks for something to bring.  Finds his boots. Picks them up, comes back.

 

Gladio’s eyebrows raise.  He glances over N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulder, then back at his face.

 

“That all you taking?” he asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks up at him.  Gladio thinks he should take something else.  He looks back into the room. There is only the cot, the dresser, and the dress.

 

Gladio hums and pushes past N H-01987 0006-0204 into the room.  N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks, nervous, thinks of the book hidden under the dresser, and what if Gladio sees it-

 

But Gladio just sweeps past the room and into the hygiene room, where he shuffles around for a minute.  He comes back out with a towel thrown over his shoulder.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  Why would he need a towel?

 

Gladio jerks open a dresser drawer and looks inside, frowning.  Fishes out a shirt, digs around some more. Frowns.

 

“You don’t have any shorts?” he asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know.  He doesn’t know what  _ shorts _ means.  He doesn’t think he has any, but it’s hard to think with Gladio so near the dresser.  His heartbeat is thrumming in his throat. He swallows. His throat feels very dry.

 

“Woah, hey,” Gladio says.  His face has softened, and he’s looking at N H-01987 0006-0204 with- something.  Concern. The softer look. “It’s okay, you can borrow some of mine.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  He doesn’t know what he would need shorts for, but Gladio looks like he’s waiting for confirmation.  He tries a smile.

 

This seems like the mostly right response, because Gladio smiles back and straightens.  Then he frowns, looking down in the drawer. Pushes some clothes aside.

 

“The hell’s that?” he asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Hovers nervously closer, peers in to see what he’s looking at.

 

It’s the discoloration, from when he vomited on the first day.  He’d cleared out the vomit but the color of it had stayed, stubborn.  A dark, black-brown stain.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels frozen.  Maybe he wouldn’t- know? The daemon blood had been mixed with stomach acid and digested food, so maybe the taint of it was different enough to not be identifiable.  Maybe.

 

“How’d you get an oil stain in your dresser?” Gladio asks.  He doesn’t sound angry. He sounds… confused. That’s better.  Better than angry.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 tries a smile.  Gladio is looking at him with his eyebrows quirked, a half-smile tilted a little on his face.

 

“You’re one weird kid,” Gladio says.  But he closes the drawer. N H-01987 0006-0204 breathes a little easier.

 

“C’mon,” Gladio says.  “Lemme show you the gym.”

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 has already seen the gym.  It’s the building where Iggy and Gladio exercised that first day, the one time where he met Gladio’s… the female juvenile…  _ sister _ .  Gladio’s sister.

 

Gladio doesn’t offer him  _ shorts.  _  He offers him  _ yoga pants, _ which are like N H-01987 0006-0204’s pants, but made with a soft material, the same texture as his shirt.  He rubs the material between his fingers in wonder, until Gladio directs him to roll up his pants legs so they don’t trail past his feet.

 

They’re made for someone of Gladio’s size, N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes.  So they are too long for him. He folds the pants legs up until they rest on his ankles, pulls the string in the waist tight so they don’t slip off his hips.

 

They go to a different room.  There’s another human inside, small, with brown hair, vaguely familiar.  It’s Gladio’s sister.

 

She whips her head around when they open the door and launches herself across the room, bellowing, “Gladdy!”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s heart leaps into his throat, but the human-  _ sister-  _ leaps for Gladio.  He catches her and swings her into the air, effortless, while she screams and laughs.

 

“Where’s Iris?” Gladio muses.  “Only thing here’s a grimy little goblin!”

 

“Fuck you!” Iris squeals.  She sounds delighted. N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders what  _ fuck  _ means, but he doesn’t get long to ponder it, because she crawls over Gladio’s shoulder to look at him.  “Oh hey! It’s you.”

 

Gladio gives her a look N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t decipher.  He’s still mostly turned away from him, so he can only see a sliver of it, but his mouth doesn’t smile.  N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.

 

She doesn’t react, though, just clambers off Gladio and hops to her feet.  Holds out her hand.

 

“I’m Iris!” she says, cheerful.  “Gladdy hasn’t been giving you a hard time, has he?”

 

“Hey,” Gladio says, offended.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks down at her offered hand.  He… doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with it. Is he supposed to take it?  And- hold it, like she were offering an object? He doesn’t want to touch her. Humans don’t like touch when they weren’t expecting it.  But the moment stretches on, uncomfortable, and Gladio is giving him an odd look, and he- he is making them uncomfortable, because he isn’t doing the right thing.

 

He reaches before he can change his mind.  Puts his hand in Iris’s, very gingerly.

 

Iris blinks at him, eyes wide.  Says, very quietly, “That’s  _ adorable _ . _ ” _

 

“You ever shake hands before?” Gladio asks, voice displeased.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s stomach shrivels. That was the wrong thing.  He did the wrong thing. Iris is looking at Gladio now, confused.

 

Except Gladio only nudges her.  And she mumbles, “Oh,” and gently readjusts her grip, so they’re holding hands. Moves it up and down, a couple of times, firmly.

 

“There,” she says.  Her voice is still cheerful, but… different.  A little angry, almost. “Now you have.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  Yes. Now he has. To shake someone’s hand was to… grip it.  And shake it gently up and down. Yes. He understands.

 

“C’mon,” Iris tells him.  The anger is still in her voice, a dangerous undercurrent, but it’s overlaid with something gentle.  Like the softness that was in Gladio’s voice. “Gladdy’s gonna show us how to beat the shit outta people, and then we’re gonna wipe the floor with him.”

 

“I’d like to see your skinny little butt try,” Gladio says, and the anger is gone from his voice.  Now it’s amused, like the anger was never there. Iris punches his torso. He doesn’t even flinch.

 

It turns out that  _ beating the shit out of people _ means to spar with them.  N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks that there may be nuance that he’s missing, but he understands the general concept, and feels secure enough in that knowledge to proceed.

 

Gladio directs them to do a series of exercises that he calls warm-up.  Iris complains the entire time, listing a long series of reasons why they should just skip to the fighting, but most of the reasons are inane or else flawed arguments.  Gladio pokes her in the side, which makes her squeak and bat his hands away, threatening bodily harm. Gladio never seems alarmed by these threats.

 

Iris never asks why he isn’t talking, or pushes him to talk.  She is small and lithe, bright, with a wicked grin. She’s a lot like Aranea.  N H-01987 0006-0204 pushes the thought away.

 

Gladio doesn’t spar with him.  He doesn’t even instruct them to spar for a long time- instead runs them through a series of poses, correcting their forms with gentle hands.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know any the forms Gladio is showing him.  It’s a lot. It’s for fighting, he knows, but a different style of fighting than he’s used to.  It stretches his body in different ways, his muscles used the fighting they taught him at the facility.

 

Then Gladio directs them so they stand ten feet apart.  Iris seems to know what’s coming, because she’s bouncing on her toes, eager, her eyes lighting up.

 

“Finally,” she says.

 

“Shut up, you,” Gladio says affectionately.  But then he’s putting a large hand, very gently, on N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulder, and watching him with his eyebrows scrunched.  He looks- worried.

 

“You remember sparring?” Gladio asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 remembers a lot of sparring.  He blinks at Gladio.

 

“Smile or frown, Blondie,” Gladio says.  “I’m not a mind reader.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 assumed that Gladio wasn’t a mind reader.  He assumed that only Ardyn was a mind reader. But maybe- some other humans had it?  Why else would Gladio need to clarify?

 

He doesn’t ponder long, has to give Gladio an answer.  He makes his mouth turn up at the corners. A smile.  _  Yes. _

 

Iris blinks at him, confusion and skepticism clear on her face.  But Gladio says, “Great. Are you good to spar with Iris? She’s a baby, she won’t kill you.”

 

“Hey!” Iris says, indignant.

 

He is… good.  To spar with Iris.  She is much smaller than Gladio, does not make his vision malfunction.  She is smaller than him, but only by a little bit. She is much closer to other members of his gene group, only a head shorter, where Aranea is much taller and Gladio much, much bigger.

 

His stomach is swimming.  It’s the thought of sparring in front of somebody- in front of Gladio. He’d grown so used to only sparring with only Aranea present, and Gladio makes his vision flicker, makes him remember the facility guards.

 

But it might make Gladio pleased.  That was good. It was always better for humans to be pleased.

 

He smiles at Gladio again.  He thinks its shaky.

 

Gladio says, “Alright.  If you need to stop, hold up these fingers.  Can you do that?”

 

He makes an odd gesture with his hands, his index finger and thumb making a circle, the other three fingers standing up and slightly curled.  Off to the side, Iris suddenly keels over, wheezing with laughter.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at her, concerned, but Gladio snaps his fingers, and N H-01987 0006-0204 looks back at the sudden sound.  “Ignore her, she’s a brat. Try doing it.”

 

“You’re teaching him _ memes,” _ Iris wheezes in the background.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks uncertainly at the gesture, but it’s easy enough to replicate.  He presses the tips of his thumb and index finger together. Raises his other fingers.

 

“There ya go,” Gladio says, sounding pleased.  “If you need to stop, you do that, okay? I’ll pry Iris off you.”

 

“Your tap-out is a meme,” Iris says.  There are tears in her eyes. “A fucking meme!”

 

Iris’s laughter feels- good.  It’s sharp and wheezing and makes his chest loosen.  Gladio’s pleased expression is also good, also makes his breathing come easier.  He doesn’t know what a  _ meme  _ is, but- it doesn’t bother him as much.  The gap in his knowledge no longer seems as detrimental.

 

He hesitates.  Waits as Iris straightens, catching her breath.  Tilts his head at her, letting a smile pull at the corners of his mouth.  Makes the gesture at her again.

 

Iris breaks into peels of laughter again.  It feels good.

 

Gladio is grinning, too.  He pats N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulder, twice, an echo of Aranea’s punches, and this time N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t flinch.

 

It feels good.  He no longer feels ill.  His stomach still churns, but not- painfully.  Something else. Excitement.

 

“Alright,” Gladio says, backing away.  “No injuring, no killing, no maiming-”

 

“No tickling,” Iris says.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what  _ tickling _ is, at least not in this context.

 

“Especially tickling,” Gladio says without missing a beat. “You start on my signal.  You go til one of you gives. Ready?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is ready.  His stomach is thrumming. He hasn’t sparred since- since Aranea, but Iris and Gladio remind him so much of her, all sharp laughter and teasing and humor.  Maybe, maybe it will feel the same.

 

“Ready!” Iris crows.  N H-01987 0006-0204 gives Gladio a smile.

 

_ “Start!”  _ Gladio barks.

 

\---

 

Iris is _ strong. _

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wouldn’t have thought it- she’s so small.  But she’s lithe, hard packed muscle and discipline behind her soft, young face.  And she compensates for her size and capitalizes on it, using all the little tricks people use when their opponent is taller, bigger, takes up more space.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows some of her tricks, but not all of them- a lot of it he’s never seen before.  He tasks a portion of his processing power to memorizing them so he can attempt to use them later on, but it has to be a small portion, because she is very skilled, and N H-01987 0006-0204 is having trouble keeping up.

 

He tries to use the forms Gladio showed them, but he has to fall back on the forms ingrained into his brain, the ones the facility taught him.  

 

Iris strikes hard and precisely, but not as fast as he is.  He slips around two, three strikes, and then she traps him neatly.  Strikes his chest.

 

He backs up.  She follows, close- she’s smaller, she needs to be closer.  He has range.

 

She goes to strike again.  He slips to the side, hits her ribs twice in quick succession.

 

She wheezes, surprised, backs up.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks, wonders if they weren’t supposed to hit that hard.  He always hit that hard with Aranea, but Iris is smaller, more fragile.

 

But no, Iris is grinning and coming back, little fists held squared and high.  He dodges, easy, and somewhere in the flurry he sees- just a glimpse, of Gladio with his arms folded-

 

_ The guard, sneering, staring him down- _

 

Iris hits his solar plexus, and then he’s on the ground, choking.

 

“You hit hard,” she says, as his hearing returns.  She’s offering him her hand.

 

He’s trying so hard not to make a sound that he doesn’t actually breathe for several seconds.  His vision is graying by the time he thinks he can inhale without whining.

 

Iris is gently snapping her fingers in front of his face.  She looks concerned. He breathes, grounding himself, the fuzz clearing.  Blinks at her. Takes her hand.

 

She hauls him to his feet.  The world lurches, but steadies under his feet, so he’s probably fine.

 

“Good?” she asks.

 

He smiles at her.  She blinks, confused, looks to Gladio.

 

“Smiling means yes,” Gladio says, but he’s frowning, and he’s looking at N H-01987 0006-0204, faintly puzzled.

 

“Oh,” Iris says.  “Okay.”

 

She pats N H-01987 0006-0204’s back, her face still creased in concern, but then she’s backing up, raising her hands again.  Ready to spar.

 

She’s giving him time to recover.  It seems detrimental- maybe a trap, if he tried to take advantage.  But she’s smaller, younger- maybe she hasn’t been taught about traps yet.  Maybe she doesn’t know about weaknesses.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 winces, leaning forward, pretends to still be recovering.  Her hands start to drop. She hovers closer, anxious.

 

He strikes out.  Her arms come whipping back up in defense, automatic, but he was aiming for her legs, and he sweeps them out from under her.

 

She lands on her back, hard, and her surprised grunt sounds a little offended.  She’s already twisting, legs coming up to clamp around his head.

 

He jerks his head to the side, and they sweep past.  She transitions into a roll, smoothly, and then they’re both on their feet and N H-01987 0006-0204 is already right up in her face as she moves back, pushing his advantage.

 

It’s pretty simple from there.  They exchange maybe two or three blows before N H-01987 0006-0204 trips her, twists her arm and levers her to the floor, kneeling on her back.

 

“You cheated,” Iris wheezing accusingly from under him.  She wiggles, but N H-01987 0006-0204 levers her arm down and she goes still.  “He cheated!”

 

“Seemed fair to me,” Gladio says, cheerful. 

 

“He faked being hurt!”

 

“That’s not against the rules.”

 

“Ugh!” Iris huffs.  She wiggles again, shoots N H-01987 0006-0204 a mildly confused look.  “You gonna let me up or what?”

 

Is he… supposed to let her up?  There are so many rules he doesn’t know.  The rules for sparring had been  _ no injuring no killing no maiming no tickling (unknown) _ .   The goal was  _ til one of you gives _ .  He doesn’t know what one of them is supposed to give.

 

That doesn’t mean letting her up.  That’s not… giving her something. That’s just letting her up.

 

“Hey,” Gladio says.  His voice is a little lower, a little angry.  “Let her up, Blondie.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 lets go quickly.  That was an order. He recognizes the tone.  

 

His chest is sinking.  He did something wrong enough that they had to give him an order.  He shuffles hurriedly backwards.

 

Iris rolls to her feet, stretching.  She’s looking at N H-01987 0006-0204, a little odd, puzzled.  On the sidelines, Gladio’s mouth is slanted, frowning, and he’s looking at N H-01987 0006-0204.  He looks… confused.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  His ears are buzzing.

 

“Where’d you learn?” Iris whines.  “Cause they taught you to  _ cheat _ .”

 

“Your opponent could do any of the things he did,” Gladio says, before N H-01987 0006-0204 can figure out a way to reply.  He levers himself to his feet, moves closer to tug gently at Iris’s brown hair. “Nothing’s cheating in a real fight.”

 

“Fuck that,” Iris says, but she sounds like she’s winding down.  Gladio replies by poking her in the side, and she squeals and moves away from him.   _ “No tickling!” _

 

“I’m the referee,” Gladio says, smug.  “I do what I want.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  He… doesn’t think he’s in trouble.  Is he?

 

“How’d you do the thing with the legs?” Iris is saying.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks, focuses on her. She demonstrates, a clumsy copy of the form he used to knock her legs out from under her.  “That.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitates.  He doesn’t know how to demonstrate without an opponent.  Hazards that Iris no longer counts as an opponent, as she is no longer acting like they are sparring.

 

He could- show her the starting form.  He carefully slides into the ready form, hands open.

 

Iris’s face lights up.  “Yeah, that! What’s that?”

 

“It’s systema,” Gladio says.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what  _ systema  _ means.  “Niff standard.  S’why you wouldn’t know it.”

 

“How’d you know Niff standard?” Iris asks, sounding genuinely bewildered.  Gladio is really frowning now, his brow furrowed and hard.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know  _ systema _ .  He doesn’t know  _ Niff standard. _  His stomach is churning.  Gladio’s face is hard and frowning and he seems to loom, to grow taller, the world warping around him.  His face flickers, becomes the blonde haired guard, becomes Gladio’s dark hair again.

 

“Hey,” Iris says.  She sounds concerned, and then her hand is on his bicep, warm.  “Are you okay? Do you need water or something?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  He realizes he’s shaking.

 

“Shit,” Gladio says softly.  And then, “Hey, kid. Why don’t we go see Iggy?  Does that sound good?”

 

Iggy is good.  Iggy is always good.

 

“Iris’ll walk you,” Gladio says.

 

Iris gives him a look.  It’s hard to discern. N H-01987 0006-0204 feels very fuzzy.

 

“Yeah, I will,” Iris says after a minute.  “C’mon, Blondie. Gladio can clean up by himself.”

 

“Be faster without an imp in my way.”

 

Iris sticks her tongue out at Gladio, and then she loops her arm through N H-01987 0006-0204’s, tugging him towards the door.  He stumbles and follows.

 

It is somehow easier to breathe in the hallway then it was in the room.  Gladio is not with them. It’s just him and Iris, who is small. That helps, somehow.

 

“I think it’s neat that you know all that stuff,” Iris tells him.  Her voice is warm and excited. Bubbly. “I got Lucian standard and Shield stuff, obviously, and whatever I can trick out of Gladdy, which isn’t nearly enough, but whatever.  You should show me all your stuff sometime. We can trade tricks.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  He still feels a little off, but- better.  He tries for a smile.

 

“That means yes, right?” Iris says, looking at his face.  “Why don’t you just nod?”

 

He- isn’t allowed.  His stomach hurts again. He feels his smile start to fail.

 

_ “ _ Oh _ ,”  _ Iris says, soft.  And then, louder- “Sorry.  That was insensitive, wasn’t it?  Pretend I didn’t say anything. Hey, you don’t mind if I talk a lot, right?  I don’t wanna be rude if being quiet is like, a thing for you, and you need other people to be quiet too-”

 

He understands- none of that.  He finds himself quirking his head, confused.  Why would he need other people to be quiet? How could being quiet be a thing?  A  _ thing  _ meant a physical object.  Didn’t it?

 

His confusion doesn’t seem to matter.  Iris seems content to chatter, and seems to require nothing from him, which is good.

 

“And don’t mind Gladdy,” Iris says.  “He’s just dumb.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 understands by now that  _ Gladdy _ is one of Gladio’s names.  He doesn’t think Gladio is dumb.  From brief observation and contextual data, he has a high level of combat skill.  That is not dumb.

 

But Iris has known Gladio for longer.  She would know better.

 

“He’s probably weird cause you look- uh,” Iris says, suddenly stopping and flushing.  She gestures with her free hand. “Um. You know.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know.  Isn’t sure what Iris is trying to convey.

 

His head tilts, confused.  Iris groans.

 

“You’re-”  She gestures to him, indicating his entire body.  She isn’t meeting his eyes, and when she finally does, she looks uncomfortable and vaguely ashamed.

 

“Blonde,” she says weakly.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  What did that have to do with anything?

 

“It doesn’t matter,” she adds, resolutely.  “Just- Gladdy might be weird cause of that. That’s all.”

 

Did Gladio dislike blonde hair?  N H-01987 0006-0204 reaches up, feels his hair between his fingers.  It’s shaggy, long enough that he can see it without much trouble. It hasn’t been cut since Aranea, but he’s never cut it himself and he can’t risk anyone that close to his neck and ear ports.

 

He’s jerked out of his thoughts by Iris, who says, “Hey look!  The leaves are turning red.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Follows her line of sight to the neat row of trees by the walkway.  Stares.

 

They’re outside, now.  The air is fresh and cool.  The grass is green beneath their feet.  But the leaves on the trees are tinged orange and yellow, strange, each uniformly edged with color, like the trees are catching fire.

 

The breeze makes the leaves ripple, look like flame.  But they don’t reflect light in the same way, don’t glow, and N H-01987 0006-0204 knows they’re only leaves.

 

It’s strange.  He doesn’t understand.

 

“C’mon,” Iris says, tugging him along.  She’s grinning at him. “You look like you’ve never seen fall leaves before.”

 

He hazards that  _ fall leaves  _ mean the orange and yellow leaves.  She is correct. He hasn’t seen them before.  He smiles at her to confirm, but she’s not paying attention to him, pulling him along out of sight.

 

As they enter the sprawling building, N H-01987 0006-0204 looks back.  The leaves flutter in the wind. They’re just something else in a long line of things N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand, but he wants to.  He wants to.

 

Maybe he’ll ask Noct.  Noct pays attention when he gestures, is good at understanding what he means.  Maybe Noct will tell him.

 

\---

 

Before they enter Iggy’s room, Iris squeezes his hand and looks him in the face.

 

“Look,” she says.  “I dunno what’s going on with you.  But if anyone’s mean, or stupid about it, you can tell me, okay?  I’ll beat them up.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t.  He isn’t allowed. His chest feels strange, strangled.

 

She’s already turned away, so he doesn’t get a chance to reply.  But her hand is warm in his, and he squeezes back, gentle. It’s the best he can do.

 

\---

 

“I have a delivery!” Iris bellows when she opens the door.  She’s loud enough that even N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks a little in surprise.

 

“Delightful,” Iggy’s dry voice comes from the kitchen.  “Who is depriving me of a peaceful evening today?”

 

“The quiet guy!” Iris says.  She nudges N H-01987 0006-0204, grins at him.

 

He looks back.  Is he supposed to do something?

 

“That describes any number of unexpected guests.”

 

Iris opens her mouth, then closes it, frowning.  “The- blonde guy, skinny, fidgety! Gladdy didn’t tell me your name,” she adds to N H-01987 0006-0204 in a quieter voice.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t have a name.  He swallows, looks at the floor.

 

Iggy appears in the hallway remarkable suddenly.  “Ah, yes,” he says, and then: “Do come in. I’m making Daggerquill rice for lunch- does that sound good?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest lightens.  It’s Iggy. He likes Iggy. Iggy is safe, and makes food, and even his glasses no longer cause N H-01987 0006-0204 any malfunctions.  He realizes that he’s smiling at him.

 

“Excellent,” Iggy says.  “This way. Noct is asleep on the couch, but I’m certain you can rouse him-” he pauses.  His nose wrinkles the tiniest bit. “... Perhaps a nice warm shower first.”

 

“We don’t smell  _ that  _ bad,” Iris whines, but she follows Iggy, tugging N H-01987 0006-0204 along with her.

 

Noct is asleep on the couch.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest feels a little easier, and he perks up.  Sharpens his hearing so he can hear Noct’s breathing. It is soft, slow, regular.  Pleasing.

 

“You know how to shower, right?” Iris hisses at him.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  He understands  _ shower  _ to mean using the hygiene chamber, which he knows how to do.  He gives her a smile.

 

“You sure?” Iris says, but she lets go of his hand.  “Do you wanna go first? I wanna raid Iggy’s pantry.”

 

“I am, remarkably enough, still within hearing range,” Iggy says.

 

_ “Politely _ raid Iggy’s pantry.  Help him get rid of leftovers, sort out all the old stuff.”

 

“Surely you wouldn’t insinuate that I am not perfectly capable.”

 

Iris and Iggy’s conversation seems to be happening in code.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tilts his head one way, then the other. Feels a little strange.  Isolated.

 

He’s supposed to shower.  Right. Yes. He knows where the hygiene chamber is in Iggy’s apartment by now, so he slips away.  Closes the little door.

 

He showers for five minutes and thirty-four seconds.  The water is very cold, icy, and staying under it turns parts of his body numb.  He has shortened the time he needs to clean efficiently and now five minutes is sufficient to wash the bad smells off his body.

 

He likes cleaning.  Even though it is cold.  He feels better afterwards, strange and pleasant.

 

He steps out of the shower.  Hesitates. All of the towels here belong to Iggy.  The one Gladio got for him is- still with Gladio.

 

That’s fine.  He squeezes the worst of the water out of his hair, shakes as much excess as possible off his body.  He is still wet when he puts on his clothes, but no longer dripping.

 

“Dude,” Iris says, when he comes into the kitchen to find her.  “You’re soaked.”

 

He blinks at her.  Iggy is stirring something on the stove, but he looks up.  His expression is unreadable, but he’s making food, and that is distracting.  He looks like he might say something.

 

“Weren’t there towels?” Iris asks.  Before N H-01987 0006-0204 can affirm, she hops off the counter and starts herding him back towards the hygiene room.

 

“Maybe housekeeping took them- oh, nah,” Iris says, directing him back through the door.  She grabs a towel off the rack and holds it out for him to take. “Here.  _ Have  _ you used towels before?”

 

He hesitates.  They’re- Iggy’s towels.  Not his to take, or use. But maybe he’s allowed?  Iris wants him to take one, but they’re not hers, but she’s human, and knows more than him.

 

Iris must take his silence to mean something else, because realization is stealing over her face, followed by something sad and angry that lights up her eyes.  She presses her mouth into a thin line.

 

“Well,” she says brightly, and then she slings the towel around his shoulders.  He jumps, but doesn’t resist. He can’t disobey a human. “You use it to dry off, so you don’t go leaving footprints everywhere.”

 

She rubs his arms up and down using the towel.  It is harsh at first, abrasive against his cold skin, but as he starts to warm it begins to feel- good.  Nice.

 

“You usually do it with your clothes off, but if Gladdy knew, he’d _ flip,” _ Iris tells him seriously.  She frowns, suddenly, puts the back of her hand on his cheek.

 

He freezes.  Holds perfectly still.  Her hand is warm on his face, and dangerously near his eyes.  She could blind him.

 

“You’re freezing,” she says, and withdraws her hand.  Her eyes are narrowing, suspicious. “...You know you can take hot showers, right?”

 

He’s still reeling.  Doesn’t quite process what she’s saying.  Blinks at her, still a little afraid.

 

Iris stares at him, wide eyed.  And then she says, “That’s fucked up.”

 

He doesn’t know what  _ fuck _ means, but he can infer by her tone that it is not good.  He looks away, nervous, his chest tightening.

 

“Well,” Iris says with forced cheer.  “Fuck that noise. C’mon, I’m gonna show you something amazing.”

 

She drapes the towel over the sink, slides open the shower door.  Reaches in and starts fiddling with the knobs. The water starts again, splashing on the tile.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hovers behind her, uncertain, but she withdraws and just holds her hand in the stream of water.  They stay like that for maybe half a minute, and N H-01987 0006-0204 can feel a faint temperature strange in the room, the air getting warmer and damper.  

 

“There we go,” Iris says, sounding pleased.  She withdraws fully, and N H-01987 0006-0204 can see faint clouds of steam inside the hygiene chamber.  “Try it now.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at her.  She… wants him to try the water.

 

He puts his hand in, and-  _ oh. _

 

It’s  _ warm.  _  It’s pleasant- better than pleasant, it’s good.  Very good. It feels like each muscle in his hand is loosening and relaxing, feels like the warmth of the blanket at night but better, as it washes his hand.

 

He whips around to look at Iris.  His eyes are very wide. She giggles, looks amused, and N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know why but the water- the water is so good.  His arm is pebbling, little bumps and hair standing on end, and he feels the prickle through his torso and legs and neck like a full-body shiver, and it’s so warm and soothing and good.

 

“Take another one!” Iris tells him.  And then, loud and suddenly flustered, “Oh! Wait!   _ I gotta leave first can’t see you change okaygoodbye.” _

 

She darts out.  N H-01987 0006-0204 would be confused.  He’s not. He’s warm, and good.

 

He strips his wet clothes off.  Gets in the hygiene chamber.

 

\---

 

It feels like his muscles are melting, relaxing, letting go of mild pains they’ve held onto for as long as he can remember.  His back is loose, his limbs are rubbery and weak.

 

Warm water in his hair feels like- hands, like touch.  Paw-Paw had ruffled his hair, and this felt similar, but gentle, so gentle.

 

It’s so good he loses track of time.

 

\---

 

After a while he realizes he’s been in the hygiene chamber for a long time.  He fumbles, checks his internal clock- he’s been in the chamber for an hour and twelve minutes.

 

That’s a long time.  Iris needs to use the hygiene chamber too.  N H-01987 0006-0204 scrambles out, turns the water off.  Hesitates. Uses the towel Iris had given him, gingerly scrubbing his damp hair, torso, arms.

 

Someone knocks on the door.  He jumps, startled.

 

“It’s just me,” Iggy’s voice says from the other side.  “I have some clean clothes for you to borrow, if you can open the door a crack.”

 

His ports are visible in his chest, in the fogged mirror.  They gleam at him, reflecting the light, set in scar tissue, too large to hide with the towel.

 

He scrambles for a solution.  Picks up the dirty shirt, slides it back on.  Wraps the towel around his waist. Cracks the door.

 

Iggy isn’t even looking.  He’s looking pointedly the other direction, and he’s holding out folded cloth- a shirt.  A pair of pants.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 takes them.  Hurriedly closes the door again.

 

He can hear on the other side, Iggy sighing through his nose, a long breath.  And then footsteps away.

 

He slides off the dirty shirt.  Puts on the clean shirt and pants.  The shirt is long, sleeves coming down past his fingers, with buttons down the middle, made of smooth, silky cloth.  

 

The pants feel similar to yoga pants, but not tight around his ankles.  Loose. Soft. They have a faint pattern on them, of feathers. N H-01987 0006-0204 runs his fingers over them.  They are pleasing.

 

They feel nice on his skin.  He is still warm from the shower, heat sinking into his bones.  He shuffles out of the hygiene room with the towel in his arms, unsure where to put it.

 

“Did you have fun?” Iris calls from the living room.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  He still isn’t sure what  _ fun _ means, but Noct uses it often in conjecture with the simulations-  _ video games.  _  He wasn’t playing video games.

 

“Whasit?” someone else grumbles, in a sleepy voice.  That’s Noct’s voice. 

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 perks up.  Hurries forward into the living room. 

 

Noct is only just raising his head.  Iris is slumped over in one couch, kicking her feet in the air, when she takes one look at N H-01987 0006-0204 and bursts into laughter.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Noct rouses, looks up, sees him.  His face lights up.

 

“It’s you!” he says.  And then his brow furrows and his mouth pulls up in one corner.  He looks like he tried to eat something bad. “What are you wearing?”

 

“He’s Iggy,” Iris wheezes.  “H-he’s Iggy, lookit him-”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks down at his clothes.  He’s not sure he understands the turn of conversation.

 

“You’re wearing a button-up,” Noct says.  He sounds offended.

 

“And pajama pants!” Iris howls.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares back at them.  He has no idea what’s happening. He doesn’t think he’s in trouble.  Iris’s laughter is good, bright and sharp like Aranea, and it makes his chest feel warm.  But Noct looks displeased.

 

“Is something the matter?” Iggy’s voice drifts in from the kitchen.  It’s phrased like a question, but he says it like a statement.

 

“Why is he wearing a button-up?” Noct says, loud.

 

“He is borrowing some of my clothes.  Is there an issue?”

 

Noct’s mouth twists more.  Iris stops laughing to hoot,  _ “Oooooohhhh,”  _ for no apparent reason.

 

“You were laughing,” Noct says to her.  He sounds annoyed.

 

“You’re in troooouuuble-”

 

Noct is frowning at her, now.  N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows. Noct is displeased.  That is not good.

 

He’s not- scared.  It’s an odd feeling.  He feels bad. But not because he’s afraid.  Just because Noct is displeased. That is all.

 

He comes over to Noct.  Does the friendly shoulder-punch.

 

“Hey,” Noct says, relaxing a little.  He does it back, then pats the space next to him, the gesture that means  _ sit here. _  “You look ridiculous.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what  _ ridiculous  _ means.  He sits, blinks at Noct.

 

“He’s just jealous cause you’re not wearing  _ his  _ clothes,” Iris says.

 

Noct flushes, ears red.  “Astrals, Iris, what the  _ fuck-” _

 

“You’re blushing?” Iris asks confused.  Then her eyes light up and she sits up, grinning, some mix of awed and delighted.   _ “Wait-” _

 

“No.”

 

“Wait, _ really?” _

 

“No!  I don’t- you’re reading  _ way _ too far into it.”

 

Iris is grinning ear to ear, but then she hums, puts her chin in her hands.  “I guess you’re right. You  _ do _ fastforward through kissing scenes.”

 

“They’re dumb.”

 

“Or maybe  _ sweet baby princeling Noct-” _

 

“No.”

 

_ “Has a cruuuuuu-” _

 

Noct sputters, largely incoherent, and flails in Iris’s general direction.  And then they’re wrestling on the floor, and it looks harmless, maybe, but N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t sure, and  _ what if he’s supposed to interfere and is he supposed to protect Noct- _

 

Iggy clears his throat.  Noct and Iris freeze on the carpet, where Noct’s elbow is digging into Iris’s side and her hand is planted in his eye.

 

Iggy is standing in the doorframe to the kitchen.  His expression makes N H-01987 0006-0204’s stomach churn, uneasy.

 

“I seem to recall that you both have homework,” he says, pleasantly.

 

“That’s not due til Monday,” Noct says, but his voice sounds a little strained and the protest is weak.

 

“No harm in getting it done early,” Iggy says.

 

Noct and Iris slump, defeated, and pull themselves to their feet, shuffling in separate directions.

 

Then Iggy is directing his voice to N H-01987 0006-0204, and he is much softer.  Kinder. “Why don’t you help me in the kitchen?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  He doesn’t know what just happened.

 

Iggy is looking at him expectantly, gentle, and he likes Iggy.  He would like to help Iggy, to be useful to Iggy. He looks at Noct, uncertain.  He wants to- guard Noct.

 

But Iggy wants him in the kitchen, and he can’t disobey a human.  He shuffles after Iggy.

 

\---

 

Iggy directs him to cutting up vegetables, handling a short, light knife that seems to exist solely to cut up plant matter.  He demonstrates, handling the knife with precision and blinding speed.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 has to replay the moment several times to understand what he was doing.  He takes the knife from Iggy. Copies him exactly.

 

“... Yes,” Iggy says, sounding odd.  “That is exactly right.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  The sentence is- a compliment. Praise.  That should be good. It means he performed correctly.  But Iggy look a little odd.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 tries a smile.  Iggy blinks, then smiles too.

 

“That was excellent,” he says.  “If you could cut up the rest in the same way, that would be most helpful.”

 

_ Most helpful.   _ N H-01987 0006-0204 feels warm, like something is glowing in his chest.  His smile feels more natural.

 

“You seem to be having a good day,” Iggy says.  “What were you and Iris doing this morning, may I ask?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Iggy knows he can’t talk.

 

But Iggy is looking at him.  His expression is soft. Gentle.  Something he doesn’t understand.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  He could… gesture. Somehow communicate sparring. Iggy didn’t need him to talk- did he?  What if he did?

 

Ardyn said- that Iggy wanted- to take him to the doctors.

 

Ardyn is not a trustworthy source.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t think so.  Logic points to him be a trustworthy source because he has never lied, and he’s fed and sheltered him and kept him safe from scientists and doctors, but- but he’s wrong.  Something about him is wrong.

 

But Iggy might not be trustworthy.  Iggy’s goals might be different. He might want to fix N H-01987 0006-0204, might want to put him under the doctor’s knives to expose and fix his malfunctions.  

 

Iggy might think he can’t talk because he’s malfunctioning.  Might want N H-01987 0006-0204 to talk.

 

“Ah,” Iggy says.  His voice sounds distant, but somehow more urgent.  There are hands on his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is shaking.  Sound seems to be coming out of a long tunnel.

 

“Can you breathe with me?” Iggy’s voice says.  “Deep breathes.  _  In.” _

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows this.  This is- what Iggy does. To make him feel better.  Easier.

 

Iggy makes him feel better.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 breathes with Iggy.

 

\---

 

Later, Iggy makes him go sit at the wooden table with Noct and Iris.  They are concentrating on the papers in front of them, but occasionally they complain about something, about history or math or Lucian.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks about not understanding.  Thinks about fall leaves, thinks about  _ systema _ and  _ shower _ and the gods.  Thinks about the small, white animal that he’s seen twice now, thinks about it has led him to the carving of the gods, to the book.

 

He thinks about Aranea, explaining with dogged persistence.  Thinks about Gladio, correcting his form with gentle hands. Thinks about Iggy, reminding him how to breathe.

 

He wants to understand.  He wants it so much it hurts.

 

He thinks about Noct, guiding his hand to the small of his back, to the scars there.   _ It’s not your fault. _

 

He understood that.  

 

Noct is- strange, different, but there are times when N H-01987 0006-0204 can see- something, in him.  Something familiar. A reflection of the quiet, starving thing he keeps under his ribs.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t sure if humans feel like- like he does.  If they malfunction in similar ways, if they freeze up in the face of their own worthlessness, if they lean helplessly towards warmth, if they burden their allies with their malfunctions.  

 

But he’s seen the thought in Noct’s face, the quiet, distant non-expression.  How he leans toward touch like something starving. How he withdraws into himself.  N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks Noct might be- a little like him. 

 

Noct is warm on his left, a faint presence of body heat.  He’s slumped over his homework, grumbling. His hair is dark in the sunlight, his eyelashes dark swoops against his cheeks.  He looks- soft.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels better watching him.  It makes his chest loosen a little, relaxing, even under the weight of all he doesn’t understand.

 

Noct might be like him.  That helps, for some reason.

 

\---

 

Later, fed and rested and much more settled, N H-01987 0006-0204 sits on the edge of his large cot, alone in his room.  It is night. He has been left alone to sleep.

 

He fishes the book back out from under the dresser.  Opens it.

 

His head is clearer.  His breathing is settled.  He wants to understand.

 

He is going to make himself understand.

 


	9. Chapter 9

N H-01987 0006-0204 beats through the book once, twice, unraveling every word, scraping up any piece of data he can find.  He concludes:

 

There are six gods:  Titan, Ramuh, Shiva, Leviathan, Bahamut, and Ifrit.

 

Titan is also called _the Archaean._  He is described as steadfast, and many of his descriptors refer to strength and rock.

 

Ramuh is also called _the Fulgurian._  He is described as sharp, and many of his descriptors refer to intelligence and storms.

 

Shiva is also called _the Glacian._  She is described as gentle, and many of her descriptors refer to kindness and snow.

 

Leviathan is also called _the Hydraean._  She is described as relentless, and many of her descriptors refer to life and tides.

 

Bahamut- _never bow to this one_ \- is also called _the Draconian._  He is described as unbending, and many of his descriptors refer to time and several things N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand, including _law, justice,_ and _war._

 

Ifrit is also called _the Infernian._  He is described as fallen.  There is very little description.

 

There are no directions on how to contact them.  But it does say that a “chosen king” will form a covenant with each at “the end of days.”  Covenant seems to mean something like _trade,_ which means that maybe- maybe it is possible to make an agreement with one.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what a “chosen king” is.  The book uses the word _king_ several times, and it appears to be a human charged with the caretaking of other humans.  But it also seems to imply something like _commander_.  It is unclear.

 

It talks a lot about _the king’s line_ .  It says _all of his blood ther’n after._ He doesn’t know what this means.  He doesn’t know what any of it means.

 

It’s late.  He should sleep.  But he doesn’t _understand_.

 

He pushes and pushes and pushes.  His head feels like it’s being ground into stone.  He’s tired.

 

He’s so tired.

 

\---

 

He dreams:

 

They are crushed under an overhang.  Aranea is pressed back into him, arm against his chest, shoving him back.

 

They are deathly still.

 

Something moves through the bushes.  Hard, armored footfalls. Mechanical.  It stops near them. Makes strange clicking sounds.

 

They don’t move.

 

It comes closer. Aranea is calm and still against him.  She is not afraid. N H-01987 0006-0204 should not be afraid.  His heart is too fast. His hand is injured, leaking black blood across his palm, and he holds it clenched and high on his chest, trying to stop it from leaking blood on the ground.

 

The footfalls come closer.  Closer still. N H-01987 0006-0204 is sick.

 

He can feel the muscles of Aranea’s legs tensing.  He can hear her heartbeat, slow, steady. She shifts.  Readies herself.

 

The clicking is closer.

 

Then Aranea springs out, so fast she blurs even in N H-01987 0006-0204’s sensors.  There’s a brief mechanical sound, like an engine starting, and then a horrible, high-pitched noise, like the screech of metal tearing apart.

 

Silence.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stays down.  In his sensors, Aranea and the other- the other one are tangled together, too close to make out.  One is moving, coming back.

 

Aranea peeks back through the foliage.  N H-01987 0006-0204 feels something in his stomach.  Like churning, but good. Strange.

 

She makes a series of hand signals.   _Quiet_.   _Follow,_ _two steps behind.  Danger_.

 

She waits for him to acknowledge.  It is harder to make gestures with his injured hand, but she does not reprimand him for being slow.

 

 _Yes_ , he signals, clumsy.

 

She turns, creeps away.  He follows.

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wakes in slow increments.  His eyes feel sticky.

 

He’s sitting against the wall, in the cot.  The book is open on his chest. He fell asleep while gathering data.

 

He’s done that twice now.  He doesn’t feel- bad, like he usually does.  Or he does feel bad, but a different kind of bad.  Not angry or scared of his malfunctions. Just… tired.  So tired.

 

He malfunctions a lot.  More than he did at the facility.  It occurs to him that the longer he’s been away from the facility, the more he seems to malfunction.

 

He stops.  Probes at that thought, uneasy.  Then runs through his backlog.

 

He was last at the facility four hundred and thirty-six days ago.  His average rate of malfunction the year before he left the facility is much lower than his average rate of malfunction in the past six months.  He seems to have gradually begun malfunctioning more as he traveled with Aranea, and has since continued with increasing malfunction since the deal with Ardyn.

 

That is bad.  Malfunctions could be corrected by scientists and doctors, and some could be corrected by guards, but he hasn’t seen those since he left the facility.  His systems are supposed to be checked every two months, and they’ve gone unmonitored for a little under fifteen.

 

But.. Aranea _valued_ her malfunctions.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 understands this to probably be a malfunction of some kind, but he’s never heard of it.  It doesn’t make sense.

 

He should still… curb his malfunctions.  If he can. They are dangerous.

 

His stomach hurts.  He hasn’t been eating or sleeping regularly for the past several days.  He must eat and sleep regularly so he may function well. That will help.  And he can… avoid Gladio. Gladio makes his vision malfunction.

 

He feels a little ill.  Gladio taught him- fighting forms.  And stood between him and unknown humans.  And sat down, whenever he malfunctioned enough that they knew something was wrong.

 

And did the holding, sometimes, tucking N H-01987 0006-0204 against his chest, protective.  Like Aranea did. Like the stories he told that first night, back at Hammerhead, of the Bole tree.

 

But he makes N H-01987 0006-0204’s vision malfunction.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  Maybe he can just… not look at him.

 

He must eat.  If he sees Gladio, he will unfocus his vision.  It will work.

 

\---

 

He doesn’t see Gladio in the dining hall.  He doesn’t see anyone he knows. He eats fruit and mildly burnt bread called _toast_ , while humans chatter and eat around him.  He anxiously combs his hair behind his ears, trying to make sure the small communications ports are covered.

 

No one speaks to him.  Food makes his stomach feel nauseous, but not unbearably so, and it soon settles and he feels- better.  Less pained.

 

He gets back to the room with the cot without incident.

 

He should pick up the book, but he feels- bad.  He doesn’t want to read the book. It is confusing and gleaning relevant data is an arduous process.

 

He works on the dress instead.  His backlog says it has been eighty-two days since Ardyn turned Aranea.

 

He has two hundred and eighty-three days left.

 

\---

 

While working on the dress, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks:

 

The book said _all of his blood ther’n after._ It refers to _the chosen king._  So there is something important about the chosen king’s blood.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what could be important about blood.  But then it occurs to him- MT blood is some mix of biological human and injected daemon.  Perhaps the blood of the chosen king is similar.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders if the chosen king had daemon blood.  Or maybe a different kind of blood. Maybe he has the runes for the barrier magic, the sunlight-and-electric magic in his veins.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know.

 

\---

 

It occurs to him that Ardyn has something daemon about him, and that he appears to hold a high rank and provides for N H-01987 0006-0204’s food and shelter.

 

He needs a chosen king to make a contract with the gods.  He doesn’t know if Ardyn- if he-

 

He hopes not.  He hopes so fervently that he feels ill.

 

\---

 

A little while later, someone opens his door.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks up, startled, but it’s just Noct.  He’s wearing soft pants and a loose shirt, and his eyes are half-lidded.

 

“Hey, can I hide in here?” he asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Does Noct need him for something?  Noct is a human, he can do whatever he likes.  Sure enough, he doesn’t wait for an answer and instead pads inside, closing the door behind him.

 

He slumps to the floor beside N H-01987 0006-0204, propped up on his hands.  N H-01987 0006-0204 scans him, sharpening his hearing, but Noct shows no signs of injury and his heartbeat is steady.

 

“I figured Gladio won’t think to look here,” Noct says conversationally.  Then he peers at the dress. “Oh, are you still messing around with the wire?”

 

He is- _messing around._  He thinks that means something like working.  He never stopped working. He glances down at the wire.

 

“Is it a coat?” Noct asks, sounding curious.  He tilts his head. “It looks like it’s got sleeves.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 perks up.  It is- not a coat, but clothing.  He doesn’t smile at Noct, but he doesn’t frown either.  He’s not sure how to convey _almost._

 

“Am I close?” Noct asks him.

 

He is close, only a few inches between them.  N H-01987 0006-0204 smiles.

 

“Neat,” Noct says, looking pleased.  “So, like. A jacket? Trench coat?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 frowns deliberately.

 

“... bathrobe?”  Noct asks uncertainly.  But then he leans forward, eyebrows furrowing.

 

“Hey,” he says, “You’re bleeding.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Looks at his hands. There’s a fine, pink line across his palm.  It hasn’t been hurting. He hadn’t really given it much attention.  It’s beading little red drops, not dangerous. Maybe Noct was worried about it getting on the clothes?  Or on Noct?

 

Noct is studying him.  His forehead is creased, one corner of his mouth pulled down.  He looks faintly puzzled.

 

Then he rouses, shuffles, says, “Hold on-”

 

He disappears into the hygiene chamber.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is frozen, momentarily afraid that he’s- disgusted Noct, or displeased him- but he reappears, holding a white box.

 

“Here,” Noct says, sitting back down.  The white box has a red cross on it- oh, it’s medical supplies.

 

Noct is watching him expectantly.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Doesn’t know what Noct is expecting.  Casts around for a moment, remembers- they think he’s human.  Noct thinks he’s human.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s never applied medical supplies on himself.  That was done by doctors. The guards sometimes used them on themselves, but the MT’s weren’t- it wasn’t- they didn’t use medical supplies.  Even touching the box was thirty detriments.

 

Aranea had used- bits of cloth, salve kept in jars, a tiny needle and invisible thread kept sterile in a special box.  N H-01987 0006-0204 knows, technically, that those were medical supplies, but they weren’t- _medical supplies._ Things kept in a white box with a red cross.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes he’s frozen up.

 

He needs to unfreeze, before Noct becomes worried.  His muscles are strung tight and unbending. He’s not at the facility, they think he’s human, it’s _fine._  It should be fine.

 

Noct’s face has shuttered into blankness, the non-expression.  He was holding the box out to N H-01987 0006-0204, but now he withdraws it, puts it in his lap.

 

“It’s a first aid kit,” Noct says.  His voice is gentle.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows what it is.  He just- can’t use it. He can, knows he can, but- the thought makes his stomach turn.

 

Noct unclips the snaps holding the box closed.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s muscles jerk.

 

There’s a faint flicker of expression in Noct’s face, but it’s gone before N H-01987 0006-0204 can discern it.  Then Noct is opening the box, picking something out- a tube, a thin pad, some other things.

 

“It’s for when people get hurt,” Noct says, and his voice is still soft, gentle.  Then he holds his hand out, expectant.

 

He wants- he wants N H-01987 0006-0204’s hand.  The one that’s cut up.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is shaking.  He needs to stop, he needs to breathe slowly, but he can’t quite seem to get a handle on it.

 

“It’s okay,” Noct says, very gentle, like he’s calming something wild, like he can somehow soothe the sharp terror in N H-01987 0006-0204’s head.  “It’s okay.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s vision is blurry.  Noct’s hand reaches, inexorable, and N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t find it in him to move away.  He takes his hand.

 

His skin is cool.  He pulls N H-01987 0006-0204’s hand towards him, and N H-01987 0006-0204 lets him, squeezing his eyes shut.

 

“It’s okay,” Noct says again.  He shifts around, doing something with his free hand.  “This might sting a little.”

 

There’s silence for a long moment.  N H-01987 0006-0204 can feel Noct’s attention on him, but he can’t respond.  He’s trying very hard not to think.

 

“Alright,” Noct says very softly.  Then he moves, and something cold and damp touches N H-01987 0006-0204’s hand.

 

It does sting, but only marginally.  N H-01987 0006-0204 remains still with his eyes closed, tries not to think about it.  

 

Noct is gentle and careful, cleaning the cut end to end.  He stops, shuffles around some more, and puts a cold gel substance on the cut.  Then a soft pad down on his palm, and then a bandage that wraps around his hand and ties off, keeping everything pressed into place.

 

“There,” Noct says.  “All done.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t want to open his eyes.  Doesn’t want this to be happening. He knows they think he’s human, and that’s- good.  He won’t be punished for this. It’s fine. It’s fine.

 

He forces his eyes open.  Noct is watching him, his expression shuttered off and blank.

 

“See?”  Noct says, gentle.  “Not so bad.”

 

It’s not bad.  It’s good. N H-01987 0006-0204 feels sick, but he forces himself to smile.

 

Noct doesn’t smile back for a moment, but then he does- a small, soft thing.  

 

“You like Iggy, yeah?” Noct says.  Then he puts his hands on his knees, pushes himself up.  “C’mon.”

 

Noct is heading for the door.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks. Gets up, gathers up the wire.

 

“Leave it,” Noct snaps out.

 

It’s a command.  N H-01987 0006-0204 obeys instantly, dropping the wire.

 

He feels sick.  He needs to work on the dress.  But Noct told him to leave it, and- and- Noct is a human.  He has to obey him.

 

Aranea, he thinks.  It’s okay. It’s okay, it’s just for- now.  He’ll be able to work on the dress later, when Noct isn’t around, _it’s fine._

 

Noct is biting his lip in the doorframe.

 

“Sorry-” he mumbles.  “I- just. Leave it for now, okay?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  Yes. He left it. He is obedient and good.

 

Noct watches him for a moment, then turns.

 

“C’mon,” he says again, and disappears out into the hallway.

 

\---

 

They go to Iggy’s rooms.  Noct is quiet the whole way, and N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t talk.  Noct is always a few steps in front, and he seems stiff, stalking forward.

 

It makes N H-01987 0006-0204 feel ill.  Not in the guard way, or the doctor way.  Something different.

 

Like Aranea.  When he was afraid he’d disappointed her.

 

He swallows.

 

The doorway to Iggy’s rooms is cracked open.  Noct pauses. Ushers N H-01987 0006-0204 to the side so they’re both pressed up against the wall, inches from the door.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at Noct.  He motions for silence, makes a cupping gesture around his ear.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t recognize the gesture.

 

“... has training,” he hears Gladio’s voice.

 

“You think he’s a danger?” Iggy says in reply.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Oh. They’re doing a stealth mission again.  They must be supposed to listen in on Iggy and Gladio without being detected.  Noct is frowning, eyebrows crooked in confusion, so maybe they’re supposed to try and understand the data as it’s being gathered.

 

“Nah,” Gladio says.  “King’s cousin said he’s not.  But the kid’s a little soldier, I swear.”

 

“Where would he have been trained?” Iggy replies.  His voice is sharp. “Lucis doesn’t take anyone below the age of majority, and Niflheim has MT’s.”

 

“I _know.”_  There’s a soft sigh, like someone breathing hard through their nose.  “I’m just tellin’ you what I saw. The kid has training, at least three years, probably more.  Or I’ll eat my shirt.”

 

There’s silence for a few moments.

 

“I believe you,” Iggy sighs.  “I just- rather hoped it wasn’t true.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“Where would he have been trained?” Iggy asks again, but his tone is different.  Less sharp, more weary. “He can’t be a soldier.”

 

“Maybe he grew up in a military household,” Gladio rumbles.  

 

“One where he didn’t learn to _write?”_

 

“He’s got Niff coloring, Specs.  A veteran with a grudge might have picked him up and kept him to vent frustration on.  We rescue refugees from our own people all the time- fuck, there’s a whole set of fighting rings at the border that pick up people fleeing and pit them against each other for entertainment.  He might have been born in one.”

 

“Six,” Iggy says, very quietly.

 

Suddenly Noct’s gripping his hand with painful strength.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks, and then Noct is dragging them away, moving silently back down the hall.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is confused.  Weren’t they going to see Iggy?

 

Noct isn’t looking at him, still pulling him down the hallway, hand locked around his wrist.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stumbles and hurries to keep up. Noct is rigid and moving almost mechanically.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes Noct’s shaking.  He blinks. Tries to make them slow down.

 

“Sorry,” Noct says as soon as N H-01987 0006-0204 braces them to slow.  They stumble to a stop, and then Noct is pushing his hair out of his face, his expression pale and tense, his fingers still trembling.  “Fuck, I’m- so sorry.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Noct is breathing too fast, squeezing N H-01987 0006-0204’s hand.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 casts around for something to help.  Remembers Iggy, teaching him how to breathe. Takes a deep breath in, so Noct will copy him.  Breathes out.

 

Noct isn’t even looking at him.  He staring at the ground, his hand white knuckled in his hair.

 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- we should have gone to my room.  I’m sorry-”

 

Noct is still shaking.  N H-01987 0006-0204 feels strange inside, hollow and cold and tender all at once.  He wants Noct to stop shaking. He wants Noct to feel safe.

 

He needs Noct to copy his breathing, so Noct will slow down his breath and feel better, calmer.  He needs to somehow communicate _breathe with me._

 

He pulls the hand Noct still has locked in his.  Puts it flat at the base of his throat, just above his collarbone.

 

Noct jerks and looks at him, eyes wide.  N H-01987 0006-0204 holds his hand in place, doesn’t let Noct jerk away.  Takes a slow, deliberate breath in. Lets it out.

 

Noct is a little flushed.  His eyes flit to the side. “No, I mean, I know you’re alive now-”

 

That isn’t what N H-01987 0006-0204 wanted to tell him.  He jerks Noct’s hand, frowning deliberately. Reaches up and thumps against Noct’s thin chest with his free hand.

 

Noct jerks and makes a strange sound.  But he stays quiet when N H-01987 0006-0204 breathes again, and when N H-01987 0006-0204 points insistently at Noct’s chest, he says, _“Oh,”_ very softly.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 breathes again.  Noct breathes with him this time, a deliberate long breath in, and then out.  In, and then out.

 

 _See,_ N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks, but can’t say.  He smiles at Noct, hopes he looks encouraging.   _Not so bad._

 

Noct smiles weakly back.

 

“Sorry,” he says again.  “I kinda freaked out, huh?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what _freaked out_ means, but he’s heard Noct say that before, and he thinks it’s related to the malfunctions where he breathes too fast.  

 

 _It’s okay,_ he thinks.   _I do that too._

 

But Noct can’t read minds, and N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t sure he’d tell Noct that even if he was allowed to speak.  

 

“Yeah,” Noct mumbles.  He smiles at N H-01987 0006-0204.  “You like playing Assassin’s Creed too, right?”

 

Assassin’s Creed is what Noct calls the simulations.  N H-01987 0006-0204 does like those- they are pleasantly challenging without being overwhelmingly so.  He smiles.

 

“Let’s do that then,” Noct says decisively.

 

\---

 

They head back to Noct’s rooms.  Noct gives him another soda, and it is still pleasant and filled with bubbles, although it does make his diaphragm contract unconsciously at regular intervals.  It is uncomfortable, but seems to be a harmless malfunction.

 

This causes Noct to smile, trying to hide it behind his fist.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to do it more. It appears to be an involuntary response, and wears off after a while.

 

They play the simulation for a while.  The explanation for the character’s actions, which N H-01987 0006-0204 still thinks is unnecessary, has gotten much more complicated.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is glad that the simulation gives him an objective, which is always much simpler and straightforward.

 

Noct seems distracted, and his character “dies” more on average then before, despite the level not being significantly more difficult.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to compensate, but it’s difficult, because his sensors want to focus on Noct, and his stomach still feels ill.

 

It occurs to N H-01987 0006-0204 out of nowhere that Ardyn said the people went to temple once a month.  He’s been here longer than two months, and only gone to temple once.

 

Maybe Ardyn knows he’s trying to talk to the gods.  Maybe he’s keeping N H-01987 0006-0204 from the temple because- there’s something that can be done.  At the temple. To make the gods hear.

 

He’s distracted enough that his character dies during an easy task.  Noct looks at him, seems a little concerned, but takes the controller without fuss and starts his turn.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to not think about it after that.

 

After a while, N H-01987 0006-0204 senses someone trotting down the hall.  The silhouette is familiar, and he finds himself looking towards the door, straightening.

 

“What’s up?” Noct asks.

 

The door bangs open before N H-01987 0006-0204 can figure out how to answer, and Iris beams at them, hands on her hips.

 

“What’s up, losers!” she bellows, and then throws herself physically at Noct.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows that Iris is not a threat, but he finds himself intercepting anyway.  He throws himself to the side, catching Iris full around the middle and twisting her to the ground.  Noct curses and scrabbles away, but Iris squeals in delight and wrestles back, rolling them across the floor.

 

“Console, console, _console_!” Noct says shrilly somewhere beyond the whirl of limbs that takes up all of N H-01987 0006-0204’s attention.  He’s significantly distracted by Noct because he doesn’t know why Noct sounds upset, but Iris plants her elbow in his throat and he can’t tear away to see what’s wrong.

 

Iris pins him down, sitting on his chest.  “You sneaky little bastard!” she says, sounding delighted.  “I’ll have to tickle you to death now.”

 

“Not here!” Noct shouts.  “If you break anything, I swear to Astrals-”

 

“Death approaches!” Iris howls, curling her hands into strange claw shapes and wiggling her fingers.  Then she frowns down at him. “You don’t look properly scared.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at her.  Takes the opportunity to throw her to the side, where she lands on all fours, shrieking.  N H-01987 0006-0204 rolls to all fours, ready to spring.

 

“Ahh, c’mon,” Iris says, but then she frowns at the ceiling, trailing off.  Then, her voice significantly more sober, she says, “Hey, uh. Do you _know_ what tickling is?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know.  Are they still fighting? He glances at Noct.

 

“Fuck, Specs is gonna murder me,” Noct is saying, gathering the soda cans off the ground.  He glances up at N H-01987 0006-0204’s puzzled face, says, “What?”

 

“He doesn’t know what tickling is!” Iris says accusingly.

 

“Seriously?” Noct says, but then a shadow flickers across his face, and he says, “I mean- sorry.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what Noct is sorry for, but he’s distracted, because Iris scrabbles closer.

 

“I’m gonna tickle you now, okay?” she tells him seriously.  “Try not to kick me.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at her, but Iris is already reaching forward, digging her fingers into his sides just under his arms, and he-

 

He seizes, fingers curling in, jaw locking, and it takes everything in him to swallow the keening sound that desperately wants to crawl out of his throat.

 

What.  What was that.

 

He stares at Iris, bewildered, while she shrieks with delight and rolls over, laughing hysterically.

 

“Oh my gods,” Noct groans, and then he moves closer.  Claps N H-01987 0006-0204 on the shoulder. “Hey, you alright?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at him.  What was that? What was _that?_  He gestures helplessly at nothing, trying to convey _what what what_.

 

“Yeah, that’s gotta be confusing if it’s never had it before,” Noct says.  Then he shrugs. “It’s just- tickling, dude. I dunno how it works.”

 

“It works by magic!” Iris howls, and then launches herself across the space again, hands outstretched.  N H-01987 0006-0204 scrambles back, instinctive, but Noct bats her aside this time.

 

“Leave him alone,” he says.  “It’ll freak him out.”

 

“Oh, c’mon,” Iris says, but then she subsides.  “What are you guys doin’ here in the dark anyway?”

 

Noct gestures at the TV.  Iris scowls.

 

“Boring,” she declares.  Then she rolls to her feet, bouncing, and pulls at N H-01987 0006-0204’s shirt.  “C’mon! You gotta show me the thing you did last time. The tripping thing.”

 

“Hey,” Noct says, sounding offended.  “We’re busy.”

 

“ _You’re_ busy,” Iris says.  “That’s a one player game.  C’mon, I wanna learn the last thing we did while sparring.”

 

“You sparred?” Noct asks, but he’s getting to his feet too, now.  He looks at N H-01987 0006-0204, seems confused, or maybe accusatory.  “Why’d you spar?”

 

“Gladdy wanted to,” Iris shrugs.

 

“He’s _afraid_ of Gladio.”

 

“Oh-” Iris says, her face pulling at the corners.  She looks- guilty. “He, uh. Didn’t spar Gladdy? Just me.”

 

Noct stares her down.

 

“It wasn’t bad or anything,” Iris says.  She elbows N H-01987 0006-0204. “C’mon, tell him it wasn’t bad.”

 

Noct peers at him.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  He’s having trouble keeping up with the conversation.  It is both moving too fast and seems to be half in code.

 

He thinks they’re talking about the time he sparred with Iris.  It wasn’t bad, except near the end, and that was N H-01987 0006-0204’s malfunctions.  He knows Gladio won’t hurt him, and Iris triggers no malfunctions at all.

 

He tilts his head at Noct a little helplessly.  

 

Noct sighs through his nose.

 

“Iggy doesn’t know, right?” he says.  “He’d skin us all.”

 

Iris grimaces, shrugging helplessly.  Noct echoes her expression, mouth twisting.

 

“We’re gonna die,” he says morosely, going to the door and putting his shoes on.

 

Iris lights up.  “We’ll die together,” she says, and then pulls N H-01987 0006-0204 to the door.  “C’mon!”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is pulled along, bewildered and a little helpless.  Normally the confusion would be upsetting, but this is- okay. He’s not afraid.

 

It’s not a bad feeling.  

 

\---

 

They go to the building from before, the one Gladio and Iris sparred in.  Iris and Noct both kick off their shoes, and N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders why they would put them on if they weren’t doing any strenuous travel in the first place.

 

“Do you know the rules?” Noct asks him.  He seems cautious, still a little rigid.

 

“Yeah, we taught him,” Iris say.  Then she grins. “Hey. Hey. Wanna see something _great?”_

 

“What?”

 

“Show him your tap-out sign,” Iris tells N H-01987 0006-0204 eagerly.  “The one that means stop.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 holds his hand in the gesture, pressing his thumb and forefinger together.  Iris starts cackling. Noct makes a series a of faces and laughs weakly. He still seems- something.  Too quiet.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wants Noct to be better.  Happier. He wishes, briefly, that they’d never stopped outside Iggy’s door.

 

He makes the gesture more deliberately at Noct, smiling.  Noct snorts a little.

 

“Okay, okay,” he says, waving N H-01987 0006-0204 off.

 

“C’mon!” Iris howls.  She bouncing on her toes.  “Show me- the thing. The thing.  Do it on Noct.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at her.  He understood none of that.

 

“The thing!” Iris stresses, and then sweeps her leg out, a clumsy copy of the forms he used to trip her before.  “The- leg thing!”

 

Oh.  He understands- some of that.  But not enough to decide a course of action.  Noct and Iris together seem to talk very fast and change subjects rapidly, and he finds himself caught in their flow, whirled helplessly along.

 

Does Iris want him to- trip Noct?  He doesn’t want to do that. Noct was- like him.  Had something small and hurting inside.

 

He can’t disobey a human.  He can’t. He looks at her helplessly.

 

Iris sighs and rolls her eyes.  Aranea did that sometimes, and despite the gesture being familiar it makes N H-01987 0006-0204 feel a little ill.

 

“Whatever it is, do it on Iris,” Noct says.

 

“Hey!” Iris says, offended.

 

That helps.  He doesn’t know if Noct outranks Iris, but he- wants to obey Noct.  It is easier to obey Noct.

 

Iris is barely two steps from him.  He darts forward, sweeps her legs out from under her.  She falls on the mat with a shriek.

 

 _“Hey!”_ she says.

 

Behind him, Noct barks out a laugh, startled.  “Wait- holy fuck, I didn’t mean _actually-”_

 

“Then you shouldn’t have told him too!” Iris says.  “You’re his favorite.”

 

 _“Iggy’s_ his favorite.  Dude, you didn’t have to- you don’t have to do stuff, y’know.  If you don’t want to.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  That is- an incredibly flawed statement.  Noct is very incorrect. He has to do many things that he doesn’t want to do.  He tilts his head at Noct, confused.

 

Noct isn’t looking at him.  Instead his hand is pressed to his mouth and his eyes are curved, the ways eyes do when someone is smiling.

 

“Okay, okay,” he says.  “Do it to me so she stops complaining.”

 

“Wait!” Iris says.  She scrabbles to her feet, circles Noct so she can watch him, her face scrunched up with intense focus.  “Do it slowly.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitates, reluctant, but he can’t disobey a human.  And he did ask for it. He moves forward and knocks Noct’s legs out from under him.  Noct lands on the ground, the breath leaving him in a whoosh, leaving him wheezing but not stunned.  N H-01987 0006-0204 hovers over him.

 

“So… like this?” Iris asks.  N H-01987 0006-0204 glances up as she slides in a clumsy copy of his starting form.  It’s mostly correct, but needs some adjustment.

 

He glances at Noct, hesitant, but Noct is sitting up now and rubbing the back of his neck and seems unharmed.  N H-01987 0006-0204 turns to Iris, his hands hovering, unsure if he’s allowed to touch her.

 

He settles for modeling the starting form.  Iris copies him almost perfectly now, and to N H-01987 0006-0204’s surprise, Noct comes to his other side and also slides into the form.  They still need some adjustment, but it’s not- _bad_ , and N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch Iris outside of sparring.

 

He slides into the second step, and then the third, and they copy each time.  Then it’s just a matter of stringing them together at proper speed.

 

He’s teaching.  He’s never- he’s always- Aranea taught him, and the guards taught him, and the gene group interacted but didn’t really _teach_ each other so much as _existed_ together.  This is different.

 

But Noct and Iris follow his steps, and they’re doing it- not fully right, but- good.  Good.

 

He feels warm.  Strange. Some combination of the warmth he felt towards Aranea and the understand he had with his gene group.  The- desire to keep each other alive. Warmth and desire to keep them safe and something else, too, a flickering wonder at how clever Noct and Iris are.

 

He runs through them through the steps a few times, before he beckons Iris forward.  Stands in a loose fighter’s stance in front of her. Pats the inside of his calf. _Hit me here._

 

Iris screws her eyes up, then brightens. “Oh! Like, now?”

 

He smiles at her.

 

“Cool,” she says, breathless.  She’s bouncing side-to-side. “I’m gonna do it now, okay? Yeah?”

 

He barely has time to smile before her leg is shooting out, ramming his leg.  She hits too far forward on her own leg, so N H-01987 0006-0204 stumbles but doesn’t fall.

 

She curses but doesn’t ask him any questions, just waits til he’s steady again and tries again.  This time she hits right, and N H-01987 0006-0204’s legs go flying out from under him and he lands flat on the mat.

 

Iris screams incoherently.  N H-01987 0006-0204 startles, as much as he can while he’s knocked flat out on his back, but she bouncing from side to side in excitement, howling incomprehensibly.  Noct is rolling his eyes.

 

“Did you _see_ that?” she bellows.

 

“I’m not deaf,” Noct grumbles.

 

“I just went- _woosh!_  And he went _pa-pow!_  That was so awesome-”

 

Iris continues to chatter for several minutes, but she doesn’t appear to be saying anything of substance.  N H-01987 0006-0204 listens, puzzled, but Noct holds his hand and hauls him to his feet. He doesn’t seem concerned.

 

Iris seems- happy.  Good.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels the warmth again, the strange combination of desire to keep Iris safe and wonder at how bright, how smart she is.  She caught on to the forms very quickly. Yes. She is very clever.

 

Noct is still holding his hand.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him, but he’s looking away, peering at something at the other end of the room.

 

There’s a human there.  N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks.  He didn’t notice him in his sensors.

 

It’s- the man from- before.  The one that’s bigger than Noct but smaller than Gladio, the one that was attacking- sparring with Noct.  He’s standing at the end of the room, too far to hear them, but he’s watching them, scowling.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s breath is a little fast.  He forces it to a normal rhythm.

 

It’s fine.  It’s fine. They were sparring.  The man is fine.

 

Noct must sense something, because he looks back at N H-01987 0006-0204.

 

“It’s fine,” he says.  He squeezes N H-01987 0006-0204’s hand.  “That’s just Cor.”

 

He doesn’t know- _Cor._  He doesn’t want to look away from Cor, but- but Cor is no longer looking at them.  He’s studying his fingers.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 makes himself look away, look back at Noct.  Tilts his head.

 

“I dunno, he’s like-” Noct waves his hand.  “He’s in charge of the Crownsguard? He does marshal stuff.”

 

 _“He does marshal stuff,”_ Iris repeats, in an incredulous tone.  “Please go tell him that to his face.”

 

“I want to live, Iris.”

 

“He can’t attack you!  That’s like, the opposite of his job.”

 

“He attacked a god, Iris.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s hearing fades out.   _What?_

 

He can hear Iris say _Just a small one!_  He doesn’t know what that means.  He’s trying to process- Cor has attacked a god.  They are- very powerful. The book said they were very powerful.  

 

Cor must be- incredibly powerful.  And dangerous. And- and-

 

Cor has attacked a god.

 

This means that he has seen one.  Which means- they can be found, and Cor knows _how._

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s ears are ringing.  He feels light and incredible, like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin and rise into the air, but not scared.  Something else, just as intense. _Excited._

 

He has to- communicate with Cor.  At some point, he must find Cor and ask.

 

The thought stays with him, even after Iggy finds them and drags up to his rooms for dinner, away from Cor and the sparring rooms.  Gods can be spoken to. Gods can be fought.

 

Gods can be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u guys have no idea how excited i am for the shit im about to pull im shakin and i haven't even written it yet


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: fantasy slurs and xenophobia, anxiety attacks, psychological torture, non-consensual touch, flashbacks

The next morning, N H-01987 0006-0204 works on the wire, because Noct interrupted him yesterday and he has to spend an adequate amount of time on it.

 

He doesn’t want to work on the wire.  He wants to find Cor. He gets distracted easily, imagining meeting Cor and how to gesture all of the- the questions, and the data he’ll need- and he finds himself staring absently, hands still around the wire.  He has to shake himself back into working several times.

 

He stops at 1400 hours, because the need to find Cor is growing- itchy, tight beneath his skin.  He shoves the wire haphazardly into its corner and leaves.

 

He has seen Cor twice.  Both times were in the building with the sparring grounds, so he goes there first.

 

He hasn’t mapped the whole building, and Cor isn’t in the rooms he’s been in before.  So starts the mapping program, flickering and static in his head, and starts dragging his fingers along the wall, taking each right turn and recording them systematically.

 

There are a lot of strange rooms, and stairs, which makes mapping tedious.  There are also a lot of humans, but they mostly give him a cursory glance and then go about their business.

 

He doesn’t find Cor.

 

He passes by a large, open air area.  There are several humans there, lined up like soldiers, stretching.  They seem to have a minimal amount of armor, and they’re talking to themselves, casual.

 

They look like- guards.  N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes that he isn’t moving.

 

The guards used to- gather like that, talk like that.  In the room where they ate, in the hallways.

 

One of them spots him, frowns, and then scowls.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s vision flickers, sees high metal walls and a tall, scowling yellow-haired man, and then the brown-haired Lucian soldier with the same expression.

 

The soldier is talking to another next to him.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s hearing is sharpened, his sensors functioning on high alert, all the hairs on his skin standing on end, and he hears clear and crisp:  _ They let Niffs in here? _

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows  _ Niff  _ to mean something like the opposite of  _ Lucian _ , and Lucian means people with olive toned skin and darker hair, with some variation and exception.  The guard-  _ soldier’s _ tone doesn’t make sense.  He doesn’t have enough data.  The soldier sounds- disgusted.  Like he’s warning the other human of poison or danger.

 

The man is still looking at him.  His lip is curled. N H-01987 0006-0204 sees the blonde guard, then the Lucian man again, flickering of gray metal ceiling and blue sky.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 manages not to bolt.  He does back away. He can- find Cor later.  Finish mapping the building later. Yes.

 

His chest feels tight and his heartbeat is too fast.  He hurries away. In his sensors, the man’s red-orange silhouette watches him go.

 

He goes to Iggy’s rooms.  He almost stops to get the wire, but remembers Noct saying _ Leave it.   _ Thinks he should avoid making the dress in front of the humans, for now.

 

He- likes being around the humans.  Even Gladio, sometimes. It is good.  But he doesn’t know which humans would try to- limit his time with the wire.

 

Noct would.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tentatively thinks Iggy would too.  He’s not sure about Gladio or Iris, but they both obey Iggy, so he thinks that Iggy might outrank them.  So until he knows what Iggy would do, he doesn’t know what Gladio or Iris would do.

 

The only person who wouldn’t interfere with the wire dress would be- Ardyn.  If he kept his side of the deal.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels ill.  Feels something else, like he’s being crushed in by stones, like something in him wants to comes screaming and clawing and growling out.  It’s frustration, he realizes. Why is the only person he can- trust, maybe- the only person who _ knows _ about the wire and why it’s _ necessary  _ and who helps keep his identity as an MT secret is- is-

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels ill.  He want to vomit. He wants to claw the bracelet off, the heavy black material solid as a restraint, wants to hurl the glistening skull and feathers far away from him.

 

But he can’t.

 

He leaves the wire.  Goes to Iggy’s rooms.  Tries not to think about the weight on his wrist.

 

\---

 

His hearing is still sharpened to hyper clarity.  He doesn’t realize it until he’s walking down the hallway outside Iggy’s rooms, and he hears Noct’s voice.

 

“...why not,” Noct is saying.  “I mean, their treaty only keeps the current Oracle in Tenebrae, and Luna won’t be Oracle until her mom steps down.”

 

“It is not nearly so simple, Noct,” Iggy says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Slows down. He knows  _ Tenebrae.  _  Why are they talking about Tenebrae?

 

“The word of the treaty certainly only limits Lady Via Fleurut, but Niflheim may take certain… precautions, as it were.  Lady Lunafreya entering Lucis, let alone Insomnia, would be practically impossible.”

 

“So give Niflheim a reason to want to let her visit.  Say it’s some Prophecy shit.”

 

“I definitely thought you were ‘bout to suggest a rescue mission for your girlfriend, princess,” Gladio rumbles.

 

“Luna’s not-” Noct sounds flustered for a second, then says, “That’s straight out of a shitty romance novel.  You know those plots don’t actually work, right?”

 

“You wanna lie about the kids rhyme everybody’s known for _ forever.  _  Niffs won’t buy that for a second.”

 

“Children,” Iggy says, sounding exasperated.  “Gladio, please try not to refer to the Prophecy as a ‘kid’s rhyme.’”

 

“We teach it to kids,” Gladio says, a little defensively, at the same time as Noct says “He’s not  _ wrong,  _ Specs.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s reached the door.  He pauses, hovers uncertainly behind it. Gladio said  _ Niff, _ but he’s not… He’s good.  He is a lot like soldiers and guards, but he’s not  _ bad _ .  

 

Maybe Niff is just a word that guards and soldiers use.  N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t sure.

 

He remembers Gladio and- the holding.  How warm and safe it was. He opens the door, inches inside.

 

“I bet I can get Uncle to help,” Noct is saying.  His back is turned to N H-01987 0006-0204. “He’s really good at stuff like this.”

 

“What, lying?” Gladio replies.  He’s sprawled out on the couch, nose half in a book.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s breathing gets a little tighter- just because- because Gladio is so big.  But he’s not bad. It’s fine, he’s not bad.

 

_ “No.   _ Political stuff.”

 

_ “Political stuff,” _ Iggy repeats at low volume, “Tutored from the cradle and he says  _ political stuff-” _

 

“I’m  _ serious,” _ Noct says, and Iggy stops talking.  “I mean, Uncle gave him his symbol. Haven’t you seen his bracelet?  He must like him a lot.”

 

What are they talking about?  N H-01987 0006-0204 feels a little sick, glances at his bracelet.  They can’t be talking about- about-

 

They can’t be.  They  _ wouldn’t. _

 

“Dunno, princess, your uncle’s kinda weird,” Gladio says, lowering the book to look at Noct.  He spots N H-01987 0006-0204. “Oh- hey, Blondie.”

 

Noct turns around.  N H-01987 0006-0204 perks up.  He likes Noct. Noct is good. Noct wouldn’t.

 

Noct perks up too, but then his expression flickers, settles on something else.  A little sad, a little- frustrated, maybe. Something. N H-01987 0006-0204 feels ill.  Is Noct going to… be like this, now? Sad when he sees N H-01987 0006-0204?

 

He moves forward, friendly-punches Noct’s shoulder.  Noct smiles, more genuine, and punches back. That is good.

 

“Hey,” Noct says.  N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes he’s wearing the slippery-textured jacket and shirt, the one with an emblem sewn into it.  This is what Noct wears when he goes to school. It is currently 1534 hours, so Noct must have gone earlier and now returned.  “What’s up?”

 

“Is that our young guest?” Iggy asks from the kitchen.  A moment later he appears in the doorway. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow and he has a faint white powder on his arms.  “Good to see you, as always. I’m afraid I’m somewhat occupied, but if you require anything you are of course welcome to get my attention.”

 

“He’s trying to make the tarts again,” Noct tells him.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what  _ tarts _ mean, but Noct is already turning away to talk to Iggy again.  “Luna could probably bring you the recipe, y’know.”

 

“If you cared so much, Umbra is just as capable,” Iggy sniffs.  He’s watching N H-01987 0006-0204 patiently, like he’s waiting for something.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 smiles uncertainly at Iggy.  This seems to be what he was waiting for, because he nods and disappears back into the kitchen.

 

“Oh, that reminds me,” Gladio says.  He pats his back pocket, then sits up to sift through a bag at his foot.  He moves slowly, which is good. “I got something to show you, Blondie.”

 

“Show him what?” Noct asks, curious.

 

“The family book of- hold on-”  Gladio frowns, checks a different pocket.  “The family book of names. I thought I dug it outta the attic.”

 

“For him to pick from?” Noct asks.  “Why would he want to be named after a flower?”

 

“Something wrong with flowers?”

 

“Nothing,  _ Gladiolus.” _

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to keep up with this, but it seems to be happening mostly in code.  He hesitates. He wants to ask Noct more about- Cor. Doesn’t know how to convey it.

 

He taps Noct on the shoulder.  Taps his chin, to convey the stubble.

 

“I have something on my face?” Noct asks, mirroring N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitantly.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 frowns.  He doesn’t know how to convey Cor.  He tries running his hand through his hair, careful not to reveal his ports, to convey  _ short hair. _

 

“You want a haircut?” Noct asks, sounding uncertain.

 

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Gladio rumbles.  “Might make him look less like a lost puppy.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what  _ haircut _ is.  He frowns again.  He slashes his hand in the motion he’s seen humans use when they’re saying  _ nevermind _ .  Waving something off.

 

It’s ok.  He can find Cor later.  He appeared twice, he’ll probably reappear again.  Probably in the sparring rooms.

 

“Dude, if you want a haircut, that’s okay,” Noct says.  “There’s people in the Citadel for that.”

 

“He may not appreciate a stranger touching him,” Iggy says from the kitchen.

 

“Oh, right,” Noct mumbles.  “Uh. Maybe we could do it?”

 

“You mean Specs could do it,” Gladio replies.  “You’d just make it worse.”

 

Noct does something strange, makes his tongue protrude from his mouth.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stares, fascinated. Is it- a gesture?

 

He hesistantly pokes his tongue out of his mouth.  It mostly just makes his lips wet.

 

“I suppose I could provide my services,” Iggy says dryly from the kitchen, but Gladio is staring at N H-01987 0006-0204 with wide eyes.

 

“You just did a blep,” he says.

 

“I what?” Noct asks.

 

“Not you.  _ Blondie _ .  Do it again.”

 

Noct looks at him quizzically.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what they’re waiting for, looks back and forth at them for contextual data.  Can’t find any.

 

“This,” Noct says, seeming to understand he needs more information.  Points up at his own face, pokes his tongue out again.

 

Oh.  N H-01987 0006-0204 sticks out his tongue.

 

“Oh shit,” Noct says softly.  His eyes are wide and something else, like the fondness, but a surprised version.  Surprised and fond. Like he didn’t expect N H-01987 0006-0204 to actually do it. 

 

“Haha, _yes,”_ Gladio says, and then, “Wait, wait, wait-”

 

He holds up- a phone.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  Gladio has a phone. Gladio has a research device.  

 

He’s still not sure if he’s allowed to type.  He typed the first day, to find out what a dress was, and Ardyn still acted like the deal was on, but- but-

 

Would Ardyn let him type out a message?  Would he _ know? _  N H-01987 0006-0204 is pretty sure Ardyn wants him unable to communicate, or else unable to communicate  _ well, _ and that was the context for the rules he set: no speaking, writing, nodding or shaking head.  

 

But he hadn’t spoken about typing the first time.  Did he know?

 

Gladio’s phone makes a weird clicking sound, then he’s lowering it.  He makes a funny snorting sound, says, “You look like a chocobo in headlights.”

 

He turns his phone around, holding it up.  Noct makes a sound that might be laughter. N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at the phone.  There’s an image on it-

 

It’s an MT.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 startles hard, leaps backward.  Noct exclaims, _ “Holy shit!”  _ and Gladio says  _ “Whoa-” _ and N H-01987 0006-0204’s heels land on the smooth wooden floor and he skids, but keeps his balance, hands out.

 

The image on Gladio’s phone has a familiar gaunt face that N H-01987 0006-0204’s seen a thousand times, reflected in the faces of his gene group.  How does Gladio have a picture of an MT? How does-

 

“It’s okay!” Noct is saying.  He sounds distressed. “It’s okay.  It’s okay, it’s just you. It’s a camera.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows  _ camera _ from  _ security camera.  _  They take video and pictures to record a particular place-

 

Oh.  Gladio has a camera on his phone.

 

It’s a picture of N H-01987 0006-0204.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels very stupid.  But then he feels strange, something bubbly and curious, like wonder.  He’s seen his reflection, but that always moved with him in perfect tandem.  This is different, like looking at a groupmate. He hasn’t seen his groupmates since he left the facility.  He is unused to it.

 

He creeps closer, a little cautious, staring at the picture.  Noct puts his hand on his shoulder as he comes in range, gentle, seems cautious and unsure.  

 

“It’s just a picture,” he says.  “They’re like- so you can look things.”

 

Gladio makes a sound like he’s going to speak, but stops.  In the picture, N H-01987 0006-0204’s face is gaunt, paler and thinner than Noct and Gladio, and thick with freckles.  His hair is yellow and wild, somewhat tangled, covering one eye and part of his face. His tongue is a pink swipe below his mouth and his eyes are wide, a pale sort of blue.  His expression is surprised.

 

“You good?” Noct is saying.  “I mean- are you okay?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204- is okay.  Gladio doesn’t have a picture of an MT.  Well, he does, but he doesn’t know, so it’s okay.  He give Noct a shaky sort of smile.

 

“That’s good,” Noct says, and he smiles back.  “You jumped like- a foot in the air, though, that was mad impressive-”

 

“Yeah, how the hell you’d do that?”  Gladio rumbles. “You looked like a startled cat.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  He knows how to leap two feet and now does so instinctively because of Aranea’s lance programming, which requires complex aerial movement.

 

He doesn’t know how to convey Aranea.  She is silver, and speed, and- a lot of things.  He doesn’t know where to start explaining her.

 

He doesn’t get much chance too, because Iggy comes into the room, wiping his hands a cloth.  “Dare I ask,” he says.

 

“He jumped two feet in the air,” Noct says.  “Like, from a standing start.”

 

“I doubt he performed the physically impossible, Noct.”

 

“Dunno, he did at least a foot and a half,” Gladio says from the couch.  He’s putting his phone in his back pocket.

 

“Yeah!” Noct says.  He sounds- a bit more excited then he’s been lately, which is good.  He seems- brighter, when he is excited. Less dull and shaded. “And he can like- he jumped like thirty feet down, once-”

 

“What?” Iggy says.  Gladio looks at Noct too, with a frown.

 

“Yeah, from- uh-” Noct says.  “No, not in a bad way, Specs. Remember the one time we snuck out?”

 

“Vividly,” Iggy says. 

 

“Yeah,” Noct says.  “So I climbed out of the bathroom window, but he jumped.”

 

“He jumped,” Iggy repeats, doubtful.

 

“Ha, what?” Gladio says.

 

“Yeah, and rolled.  He was fine. But it was like thirty feet, it was crazy.”  Noct turns to him. “Back me up, here.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  Noct is waiting for something, and N H-01987 0006-0204 wants him to continue being- bright, so he smiles.

 

“See?” Noct says, turning back.

 

Iggy is gazing at Noct, eyebrows crooked up.  Gladio, though, is frowning thoughtfully, looking past N H-01987 0006-0204, at the wall, his gaze unfocused.

 

“Noct, that height would be impossible to fall from without some damage,” Iggy says.  “And our guest seems quite healthy.”

 

“I dunno, I believe it,” Gladio says.  “He was crazy fast in sparring. Kept dodging Iris.”

 

“I’m sorry?” Iggy says, pleasantly.

 

The atmosphere of the room seems to change.  Noct looks at the floor with sudden interest.  Gladio looks at the ceiling, his eyebrows furrowed.  It seems- tense. It reminds him, with swooping dread, of Ardyn, how smooth and pleasant his tone was, how terrifying and dangerous he was every time.  N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.

 

It’s not like that, he reminds himself.  Iggy isn’t like that.

 

“Highness,” Iggy says smoothly, “Why don’t you take our guest to play some games?”

 

“Gone,” Noct says quickly, and then he has N H-01987 0006-0204’s wrist in his hand and he’s tugging him outside.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stumbles obediently after Noct, glad to be gone.  He hears Iggy, when they’re down the hallway and the door is closed, in a soft, dangerous voice, say  _ Sparring? _

 

“He’s gonna get it now,” Noct says.  He shoots N H-01987 0006-0204 a half-smile.  “Mom’s gonna skin him.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  He doesn’t know what _ mom _ is.  He knows  _ skin _ means removing the skin off an animal in preparation for eating, but humans don’t hurt- pain isn’t for humans- so N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t think that Noct means skin in that context.

 

“I’m just glad it wasn’t me,” Noct says.  They’re further along in the hallway now. “I’m gonna owe Gladio now, and he’s the worst.  Early training for days, probably.”

 

Noct lets go of N H-01987 0006-0204’s wrist, but he’s still walking along, so N H-01987 0006-0204 concludes that he is meant to follow.  He falls in step with Noct.

 

“You are- okay with sparring, right?” Noct asks.  He sounds cautious again, sinking back into the same strange sadness.  “Dunno, it seems- like something you’d _ know, _ y’know?  So it’d be- familiar.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at Noct.  Noct is watching him, mouth crooked to one side, studying for a reaction.  He does that often, seems to intersperse his speaking with looking at N H-01987 0006-0204, watching for something so he’ll know what N H-01987 0006-0204 is thinking.

 

That is- good.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s communication is very limited, but Noct is trying to- seems to look and listen, attentive.  It is good.

 

He realizes he’s smiling at Noct when Noct smiles back, a small one.  His hand comes up, touches the back of his neck.

 

“Hey,” he says.  “I’m sort of hard to get up in the morning, but if you ever wanna spar, or do- something.  You can come get me. We can hang out.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  He doesn’t know what _ hang out _ means.  He tilts his head at Noct.

 

He frowns, says, “Like, uh.  I like spending time with you?  It’s no big deal.”

 

Oh.  Noct is saying that if N H-01987 0006-0204 ever wants to do- something, possibly a group activity- he can come find Noct.  N H-01987 0006-0204 understands. He smiles, a little brighter than he meant too. He likes Noct. He would like to-  _ hang out _ with Noct.

 

“Yeah,” Noct says.  He looks a little flushed, glances away.  “C’mon. I wanna see how far we can get in Syndicate.”

 

\---

 

They go to Noct’s rooms.  Play the simulation for a while.  It is good, warm.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 likes it.  Yes. He likes spending time with Noct.  It’s different from Aranea, who is impossibly powerful and smart; Noct seems to make several miscalculations and has incorrect data.  But he also teaches N H-01987 0006-0204 contextual data, so N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks they have a similar level of knowledge but on different subjects.

 

It’s different than Gladio and Iggy, too.  Iggy seems to know everything, like Aranea, and Gladio is- large.  Frightening. But does the holding action, the one that makes N H-01987 0006-0204 feel safe.  They both feel- larger than N H-01987 0006-0204. Of higher rank.

 

Noct seems to be- almost like- the same rank.  Like a groupmate.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows that thought is bad.  He knows it’s incredibly incorrect. Noct is  _ human. _  Back at the facility, he would have been whipped and isolated for even mentioning that thought.

 

He’s not at the facility.  He will never return to the facility.  But he still takes the thought and pushes it deep, deep down in his biological memory, locks it down.  It is not a good thought. He will not think it anymore.

 

The thought that follows on its heels is that he wants Noct to meet Aranea, someday.  He wants him to look up at her silver hair and cackling laugh and feel the warmth in his chest like N H-01987 0006-0204 does.  And he wants Aranea to meet Noct, to see the shadowed, soft, sleepy human that is careful to explain data to N H-01987 0006-0204, who feeds him soda and plays simulations with him, who asks if he’s okay.

 

He wants them to know each other.

 

\---

 

Sometime later, N H-01987 0006-0204 feels a strangeness in his limbs, his body becoming loose, relaxed.  

 

Something is coming up, outside, in the hallway.  The daemon blood in N H-01987 0006-0204 is becoming smooth, pleased, and N H-01987 0006-0204 drops the controller as horror and realization make him sick, terrified.

 

“Hey, you okay?” Noct says.  He reaches down to pick up the controller.

 

Someone knocks on the door.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows who it is.  He needs to shove Noct away, out of sight, needs to go out and distract him so he doesn’t go near Noct, but he can’t- he can’t move- his body is smooth and relaxed and he can only twitch.

 

Noct says, “Fuck, hold on,” and gets up.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t stop him.  He thinks  _ No, no, Noct no _ but Noct can’t read minds and his back is turned and no-  _ no- _

 

“Uncle!” Noct says, surprised.  The door is open. N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t see who’s on the other side, doesn’t need to.  “What are you doing here?”

 

“I’m on the hunt for my young ward,” Ardyn’s voice says, smooth and pleasant.  “Although it is always good to see my favorite nephew.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s hearing jerks in and out.  He can’t move. He can’t move and Noct is talking to Ardyn  _ why is he talking to Ardyn he can’t he shouldn’t he needs to leave and be safe- _

 

“...come in,” Noct is saying, stepping aside.  He looks pleased, excited, and Ardyn sweeps in, tall and broad, dark cloak and red-purple hair, impossibly huge in N H-01987 0006-0204’s vision.  N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t move. He can’t-

 

He can twitch, horrible, crawling jerks of his hand, almost invisible.  Why is Ardyn letting him twitch? Is Ardyn letting him twitch?

 

“There you are, little bird,” Ardyn says, smiling down at N H-01987 0006-0204, his voice warm and his eyes glimmering and amused.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s head turns to look at him, utterly out of his control, and he can feel his mouth forming a smile.

 

He needs to shake out of it.  He needs to escape. He can’t, he’s caged in his own body.

 

“I am sorry to steal him from you,” Ardyn is telling Noct.  “House matters, you know.”

 

“Yeah,” Noct is saying scratching the back of his head.  “It’s good to see you, though. Do you know if- I have a free afternoon tomorrow, I know it’s kind of short notice-”

 

Ardyn smiles at him, looks genuinely fond.  “Why, my dearest nephew,” he says. “I shall _ always  _ endeavor to make time for you.  I believe I have a free hour after council meetings, I’d love to make you tea.”

 

_ No no no no no- _ N H-01987 0006-0204 remembers tea, the thin porcelain cups, the boiling water pouring down his throat and scorching in his lungs-  _ not tea, not to Noct, please- Ardyn don’t hurt him- please don’t- please- _

 

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Noct says, oblivious to the message N H-01987 0006-0204 is unable to give him, even though he’s barely two feet away.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 twitches his fingers.  Tries to jerk free, can’t. Can barely move at all.

 

“Excellent,” Ardyn says, and he- reaches- out-

 

_ Touches  _ Noct-

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wants to scream.  He wants to claw out of his own head. He can’t. _  He can’t. _

 

Ardyn is ruffling Noct’s hair, and it’s wrong, _ it’s wrong, his hand is so close to his eyes, his nose, his ears, the delicate parts of the face that are so easy to crush and break, he could snap Noct’s neck, he could- he could- _

 

Noct lets him do it, before brushing him off, laughing softly, like nothing’s wrong at all.  Like it’s okay. Like Ardyn is okay, because  _ he. Doesn’t.  Know. _

 

“I’ll try to return him in an hour or so,” Ardyn is telling Noct.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Noct says.  “Don’t bore him to death with weird history lessons.”

 

“I would never,” Ardyn gasps, putting a hand over his heart, then he is beckoning and N H-01987 0006-0204’s body is rising, inexorable, utterly out of his control, and they’re- walking to the door-

 

“See you soon, dearest nephew,” Ardyn says.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s body smiles at Noct, like nothing is wrong, and then follows Ardyn out of the door.

 

“See you,” Noct says, and closes the door behind them.

 

\---

 

His body follows Ardyn down the hallways.

 

As they go, his body becomes smoother, more pleased, until he can no longer twitch.  He is trapped completely in his own skin. 

 

He tries to stay- steady.  He’s not steady, he’s reeling, but they’re going away from Noct, and that is good, that is very good, but Noct  _ doesn’t know. _  How can they not know?  Has Ardyn- does he-

 

“My darling,” Ardyn cooes, “It’s so  _ rude  _ to think of me like I’m not here.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to find his thoughts, feels like he’s scrambling and choking again.

 

“Ah, but what were you talking about with my dearest nephew?” Ardyn says, amused, curious.

 

They’re inside a room now, Ardyn’s room, the one with the soft chair and the table and the-  _ thin- cups- _

 

“Oh darling,” Ardyn purrs, sweeping forward.  “I won’t make you drink tea again. I simply _ cannot  _ abide repetition.  Sit.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s body sits in a soft seat.  His blood is smooth and pleased and warm, and his mind is crawling and he can’t get out.  Is Ardyn going to make him drink the- the hot, boiling- the- tea?

 

“I just said I would not,” Ardyn clicks his tongue, disapproving.  He has a half-smile on his face, watching N H-01987 0006-0204, almost thoughtful.

 

“I must retract my previous statement,” he hums.  “There is some repetition I find acceptable.  _ You _ , little Besithia, are an absolute  _ delight.” _

 

He doesn’t know  _ Besithia.  _  He doesn’t know.  He wants to vomit, he wants to faint, he wants- he wants-

 

Ardyn laughs.  It’s low and smooth, and awful.

 

“Why, dear one,” he says.  “Besithia is the closest thing you have to a father.”

 

He doesn’t know _ father.  _  He doesn’t- please-

 

Ardyn is smiling at him.  There’s something odd in his expression, something soft and fond, the same expression he used on Noct, the same expression he’s seen on Aranea and Cindy and Paw-Paw but it’s- so-  _ wrong _ on Ardyn’s face.

 

“You’re so _ pure,” _ he says, wondering and something else.  Bitter.  _  “Untainted.  _  Well.  Don’t worry, dearest.  Family can be... hm. Perhaps it is best you don’t know.”

 

Ardyn’s gaze slides off N H-01987 0006-0204’s face.  He looks- glazed over, not entirely there.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  Did- was Ardyn using his other senses?  Was he- N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand.  He looked not there, like he was leaving his body, like- like how N H-01987 0006-0204 malfunctioned.

 

“What were you talking about, with my dear nephew,” Ardyn says again, suddenly, expression changing, and then he turns on N H-01987 0006-0204, eyes yellow and sharp and curious and he- leans- forward-

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s head grows warm and loose and there’s- the shuffling sensation.  Ardyn is shuffling through his thoughts, turning them out and scattering them carelessly, walking backwards through his memory.

 

“Typing,” Ardyn murmurs.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s stomach swoops on horror.

 

But Ardyn’s face softens.  “Oh, dearest,” he says. “You’re trying to obey the  _ spirit _ of the rules.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand.  But Ardyn is looking at him again, fond, pleased.

 

“You really are fascinating, little Besithia,” he says.  “So unlike your father. Well. I didn’t put it in the letter of the rules, did I?  A terrible oversight. Besithia would have exploited that to his weaselly little heart’s content, but you…”

 

Ardyn leans forward, unbearably close, and every inch of N H-01987 0006-0204 is begging to move, to jerk, to  _ something, _ as the daemon presence of Ardyn presses into him like a physical thing, even with a foot of space between them-

 

_ “You _ didn’t,” Ardyn murmurs, close enough that N H-01987 0006-0204 can smell his breath, a strong smell he can’t describe.

 

“Well,” Ardyn says, leaning back abruptly, leaving N H-01987 0006-0204.  “Let’s say… for the times you have typed, since you have only done so in order to uphold your end of the deal, and have really caused no harm, there will be no punishment.  __

 

_ “But-” _ he adds, as N H-01987 0006-0204 sinks into relief, “For every letter you type from now on, I will hold one of your fingers against a hot stove.  Do you understand?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 understands- he is not to type.  If he types he will- something bad will happen. N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know  _ stove, _ but he knows it will be bad.

 

Ardyn is smiling at him.  Amused.

 

“Oh darling,” he murmurs.  “I will show you a stove when you need to know.  You may be able to complete the dress with burnt hands, but you will wish dearly you didn’t have to.”

 

“Ah,” he adds, his hand coming up to rest delicately on his mouth, thoughtful, “But my darling nephew and his dearest meat-shield think you need a haircut.  And they’re not wrong.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know  _ haircut. _  He can’t move.  Stove means- to burn?  Somehow. Ardyn thinks he needs- a haircut.  And that means it will hurt.

 

“Oh, dearest,” Ardyn says, wounded, “Not  _ everything _ I do hurts.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at him.  That is- wrong. That is incorrect data.

 

Ardyn looks- amused.  There is a half-smile on his face, a pleased little smirk.

 

“Very well,” he says, “This- if you do not move- will not hurt at all.”

 

He gestures with one hand, and the daemon feeling intensifies, and there’s a flurry of red sparks and- something metal- drops into his hands-

 

A pair of scissors.

 

\---

 

It will occur to N H-01987 0006-0204 later, when the haze of panic has passed, that he couldn’t have moved, even if he wanted to.  That Ardyn’s warning-  _ if you do not move- _ didn’t matter at all.

 

It doesn’t matter in the moment.  The scissors flash silver and white, a shape N H-01987 0006-0204 would recognize with miles of distance between them, and he scrambles against the inside of his own head and can’t- move-

 

Ardyn stands, begins to circle N H-01987 0006-0204, the scissors making a soft sound as they open-  _ sshhhkk- _

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s vision changes.

 

\---

 

He remembers:

 

“Oh-two-oh-four,” one of the doctors says.  This one is male, five foot four. Yellow hair.  Cracks fingers often, possible weakness in hands.  Standard weakness in base of skull, spine, eyes, nose, ears, inside of joints.  He is holding a clipboard. “For heart access port. Fuck, why do we wait ‘til they’re adults to do this?”

 

“Growth,” the other doctor answers, flat.  She is five foot six, yellow hair tied back.  Most of her is obscured by heavy canvas scrubs.  She is wearing thick correctional lens- _ glasses- _ that glint in the light.  “Put your gloves on.”

 

“It’d make more sense to risk it when we’ve only put a year into them,” the male doctor says, scanning the clipboard.  “Average pain response, below average growth, but they think it’s as big as it’s gonna get.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is strapped down on the table.  The metal is cold. He can feel the faint grooves for draining fluids digging into his side.

 

His breath is too fast.  He regulates it. Puts part of his processing power aside to keep it at the correct pace.

 

“Gloves.” the female doctor says, overhead.  “Unless you want acid burns.”

 

“Shouldn’t its blood should be fairly diluted?”

 

“It’d still burn through your fingers, and we have to pump more in to reduce chance of infection.”

 

“Fuck, right.”  The male doctor disappears from N H-01987 0006-0204’s view.  The female doctor is busy with some things out of N H-01987 0006-0204’s line of sight, but he can hear them.  Faint clicking of metal on metal.

 

She reappears in his line of sight, plugs a heavy needle and tube into his wrist access port.  He feels it click into place and lock with the mechanics beneath his skin.

 

Her face is cool, expressionless.  The other doctor had looked- too curious, too interested.  He was still new. Dangerous.

 

She disappears again.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s heart is too fast, but his breath is correct.  He feels strange, ill. Malfunctioning.

 

He opens his mouth.  “Unit malfunctioning.”

 

The doctor doesn’t look up.  Doesn’t appear to hear him at all.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 waits.  His heart is too fast. He is still malfunctioning.  Something dark and gray is creeping at the edges of his vision.

 

The male doctor reappears.  He is wearing heavy canvas scrubs too.  The emblem on his shoulder indicates that he is a lower rank than the female doctor.

 

“Do we need anesthesia?”

 

“They’re saving morphine for the human troops.”

 

“They know we’d save more if we had pain medication, right?  Fucking stupid.”

 

The female doctor snorts.  “Government thinks we can always pop out another one.  Somehow cheaper to save morphine for people then to make a whole new robot.”

 

“Morons,” the male doctor says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 tries again.  “Unit malfunctioning.”

 

“Report,” the male doctor says.

 

“Heart rate above normal limit.  Vision malfunctioning.”

 

The male doctor frowns, but the female doctor shrugs.

 

“They always malfunction before a major surgery.  Pretty normal. Pass me the gag?”

 

The male doctor passes her the thick rope-bit.  N H-01987 0006-0204 waits. His malfunctions don’t correct.  They don’t correct. His vision is still graying, his heart is still too fast.

 

“I don’t put it in til it’s too loud,” the female doctor says, putting the rope-bit by his head.  “It’s better to have it able to talk. Unit, report blood level.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 says, “Seventy-eight percent biological, twenty-two percent inserted, glucose five point two-”

 

“Why do we say inserted?” the doctor grumbles.  “It’s daemon. Everyone knows it’s daemon.”

 

“Keep your mouth shut or you’ll wake up in pieces one of these days,” the female doctor says.  “Pass me the scissors.” 

 

The male doctor hands her the long, thin scissors, sharp and hooked.  N H-01987 0006-0204 vision centers on it and won’t let go. His arm hurts.  His spine hurts. The delicate places behind his ears, still new and raw, throb.

 

“Start transfusion,” the female doctor instructs.  

 

Far beyond his unwavering gaze on the scissors, N H-01987 0006-0204 sees the male doctor remove the clamp from the tube.  He sees the oily black blood start flowing down, down into his wrist port. Feels it bite, further down in his forearm.

 

“Are you gonna mark its chest?” the male doctor asks, curious.

 

“Not after the hundred and fiftieth time,” the female doctor says drily, putting her gloved hand on his sternum.  “Great thing about clones, they’re literally all exactly the same.”

 

She makes a cut.  It hurts, but only marginally, deep enough to cut through all layers of skin.  Then she slides the scissors in, cold and stinging, and- and-

 

He doesn’t make a sound.  It hurts. He doesn’t make a sound.

The pain grows like a physical thing, like fire eating his chest and muscles, like a white hot metal disk pressed into his chest.  He can’t get away from it. His body twitches unconsciously as much as it can in the restraints.

 

It hurts like broken glass behind his teeth, it  _ hurts- so- much. _

 

At some point his vocal cords vibrate without his permission, and he makes a strange, whining, mechanical screaming noise.  The doctors are unphased, and it’s only when the volume rises to something intolerable that the female doctors says, terse, “Gag it.”

 

The male doctor puts the cloth between his teeth.  The sound is muffled. He feels like he’s being cut open.  He is being cut open, the scissors, inexorable, cold, slicing through muscle and fat.

 

They gently pry his ribs apart.  He can feel his heart going too fast.  It’s only when he feels the doctor’s hand slip down into his chest and under his ribs that he passes out.

 

\---

 

He wakes up choking.

 

He’s not supposed to make a sound.  He shoots upward, clutching at his throat, and then his chest.  Expecting find the wet, slippery opening, things sliding out of place inside.

 

It’s closed.  He can feel the cool metal of his chest port, the thick, webbed scarring around it, long since healed.  It’s fine. He was just remembering, it’s fine.

 

He’s in- the room with the cot.  Gray evening light is filtering through the window.

 

He breathes.  Then chokes again, his stomach roiling, and hurries to open up a drawer.  Vomits.

 

There’s clothes in this one.  His vomit is black and acidic, burns holes in the shirts and pants.  He breathes, his eyes watering, and each breath tastes sour and foul.

 

His neck feels oddly cool.  He reaches up, feels the absence of hair.  Runs his hands, confused and shaking, across his head.

 

His hair is cropped short in the back.  It is long enough to just cover his ear ports, no longer falling to his shoulders.  It is also- smooth. A strange texture, somehow pleasant. It falls, soft, against his forehead, making soft swoops.

 

It feels- good.  He carefully rubs the strands between his fingers.  He doesn’t understand- how did…

 

Ardyn.  Haircut.  Hair- cut.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels ill.  His mouth is stinging and burning with the remains of the vomit.  His body jerks once, twice, still sick, but there’s nothing left to vomit and soon it subsides.  He shakily lets go of the hair and lets his hands come to rest in his lap.

 

His body is shaking.  He is so tired, and confused, and every part of him aches.  His eyes and nose are running, and his mouth is still foul and acidic, burning painfully.

 

He should wash his mouth out.  But the cot is soft. And he aches.  

 

He leans back on the cot.  Shuffles so he’s laying down, and it’s soft.  It’s so soft. His strangely short hair tickles and brushes against the sheets.  Just a minute, he thinks. I’ll get up in just a minute.

 

He falls asleep.

 

\---

 

He dreams: 

 

The silver-haired MT is starting a fire.  They are sheltered by a rocky half-cave, a sort of shelter formed out enormous boulders.  She has wedged them in a skinny, angular space deep in the boulders, far enough that the outside light cannot be seen.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is still too weak to move very far.  He is sitting under his own power, wrapped tightly in jackets and heavy cloth, and the cold still bites into him.  It is too cold to safely operate without some external heating source.

 

“It is negative twelve point five degrees,” he states.

 

“I know, kid,” the silver haired MT says.  

 

It is too dark for N H-01987 0006-0204 to see her expression, but seconds later the sparks catch and a warm yellow-orange light glows faintly beneath the pile of kindling.  The MT pokes more wood into it, and crumpled paper, and then approaches him. 

 

She strips his boots off, then his damp feet coverings.  The air is cold, biting his toes, but she rubs his feet vigorously enough to hurt, then tugs him closer to the fire.  He goes willingly, and the heat sinks into his skin, thawing his freezing feet.

 

She strips him of layers, rubbing and pummeling his arms.  His blood starts to flow again, and he feels- cold, and like he’s being stabbed with needles.  But the feeling passes and he starts to warm, shivering violently.

 

She strips off her own damp clothes, repeats the process with herself.  N H-01987 0006-0204 can see the heavy metal implanted in her spine, darker than his own.  

 

When the clothes by the fire have warmed and dried, she dresses him first, dragging his pants and tightening them around his waist, pulling his arms through the jacket sleeves and buttoning them to his chin.  She jams a hat over his ears, then begins dressing herself.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks.  Something… doesn’t fit. They are traveling.  They don’t have substance packets. It is too cold.

 

He tentatively thinks this MT has a higher rank than him.  But he doesn’t know.

 

“Request for clarification,” he states, and then waits.

 

“Yeah, what?” the MT says.  

 

It isn’t the proper response.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at her, unsure if he’s allowed to speak or not.

 

The silver haired MT glances up at him and then sighs, dragging her hands across her face.

 

“Proceed,” she says flatly.  It’s the proper response. N H-01987 0006-0204 feels sick with relief.

 

“Are we on a mission?” he asks.

 

“Kinda,” the MT says.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what _ kinda _ means, but the MT continues before he can say anything.  “I’m on a mission. I’m just… bringing you along.”

 

Oh.  He is assisting.  Yes.

 

“What are the mission parameters?” he asks.

 

The MT frowns, poking at the fire.  “S’classified, kid,” she says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand.  How does he assist? What is he meant to do?

 

The MT looks at him, frowns.  Then her face clears. She says, “Fuck.  Right. Sorry, I forgot what it was like.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand.  Watches her, tries to absorb contextual information.

 

“Here’s the thing,” she says.  __ “I took you out of the facility.  We are never going back.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at her.  MT’s don’t leave the facility until their sixth portion of training, and then they are fully armored.  He is not fully armored. He is not authorized.

 

“I am not authorized,” he says.

 

“Not according to the facility, I know,” the MT says.  “But the facility no longer authorizes you.”

 

She sounds strange, intense.  She’s watching him with silver eyes.  N H-01987 0006-0204 feels odd, afraid.

 

“I’ll keep you safe, and I’ll need you to do what I say sometimes,” the MT says.  “But I don’t authorize you either.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand.  He feels like he’s standing on the brink of some terrible fall.

 

“Who authorizes me?” he asks.

 

“You do,” the MT says.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  Doesn’t understand.

 

The MT sighs.  Scoots forward more, so there’s only a few feet between them.  Meets his eyes.

 

“This is going to sound confusing,” she says, “But I need you to remember it, okay?”

 

He stares.  Nods.

 

“I’m on a mission,” she says.  “Not as an MT, but as a person.  I act individually. Does this make sense?”

 

“MT’s are not human,” N H-01987 0006-0204 says.

 

“I didn’t say human.  I said _ person. _  Do you understand?”

 

He.. doesn’t know the difference between  _ human  _ and _ person. _  But he understands that she acts- with some choice.  She acts within mission parameters, but more freely. Like- a human soldier.

 

“Yes,” he says, even though he doesn’t understand everything.

 

The MT nods.  “As a part of acting individually,” she says, “I picked you up.  I didn’t plan to, but I didn’t plan the explosion either, and I couldn’t leave you.  You survived and your groupmates didn’t and I’m too soft to let you die in the snow.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  The MT stares back. He doesn’t understand.  It sounds like his only purpose is to recover to full health and then- something.  What? What is he supposed to do?

 

“What is my purpose?” he asks.

 

“Six, existential crisis right off the bat,” she grumbles.  

 

She settles more firmly on the ground.  Seems to be thinking for a while.

 

“Kid, just try your goddamn best, alright?” she finally says.  “I’m taking care of you and I’ll teach you best I can, but the overall idea is just- exist, I guess.  And be good.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to process this.  There are many words he doesn’t understand. But he understands:  _ try goddamn best.  Exist. Be good. _

 

He doesn’t understand how this helps her with her mission parameters.

 

“Why did you take me?” he asks.

 

The MT pokes at the fire.  Shrugs. Her hair is silvery and strange, even in the yellow-orange light.

 

“Someone did the same for me once,” she says.  “And it’s fucking confusing and terrible and scary, but so much better outside.  _  Life _ is so much better.”

 

He doesn’t understand.  But she looks at him, and there’s a look he doesn’t recognize in her face, something soft.

 

“I’ll help you,” she says.  “It’ll be hard, but I’ll help.  Okay?”

 

He still doesn’t understand, but- the MT said she would help.  She’ll help.

 

He swallows.  Nods.

 

\---

 

He wakes up slowly.

 

He stares at the ceiling, not really seeing it.  His chest feels like one huge, empty ache. His mouth is dry and burning, and he can feel the tender acid burns in his mouth and behind his teeth.

 

He misses Aranea.  He misses her like- like something taken out of him, like an organ or a limb.

 

It aches.  It’s not a physical pain, but it feels- similar.  Like something hurting. His mouth feels inconsequential in the wake of it, the pain numb in comparison.

 

He gets up eventually.  He has to.

 

\---

 

He washes his mouth out.  Empties the acidic vomit into the toilet, scrapes the ruined clothes from that drawer into the trash.  Works on the wire. Makes no new cuts on his fingers, which is good. Maybe Noct won’t be sad again.

 

His mouth stings, but he doesn’t feel hungry and he can’t talk anyway, so he doesn’t open or aggravate his mouth.  It will heal. It has before.

 

He wavers about going to see Iggy.  Remembers Ardyn in Noct’s doorway-

 

_ Scissors- _

 

He forces the thought out of his head.  Iggy wasn’t- they were good. They were very good.  They just didn’t know.

 

He goes to see Iggy.  He feels lightheaded and strange, his chest sick with fear, but he goes to see Iggy.

 

\---

 

He doesn’t get to Iggy’s rooms, because Gladio comes tromping from the opposite direction.

 

“Hey, Blondie,” he says.  He is large, but N H-01987 0006-0204 is still floating on the sad, empty ache, and he doesn’t feel- scared.  Mostly just bewildered.

 

Iggy is behind Gladio, and he is scowling.  Behind Iggy is Iris, and her face is- hard to explain.  Something like amused and wary, watching Iggy and Gladio.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Iggy’s glasses flash once, twice in the light- N H-01987 0006-0204 looks away quickly.

 

“You good?  Ate breakfast?” Gladio says.  Then he frowns. “Did you get a haircut?”

 

“Gladio,” Iggy says.  His voice is very low, and rumbling, like a growl. 

 

“You  _ said  _ okay,” Gladio shoots back, before N H-01987 0006-0204 can answer any of his earlier questions.  He turns to N H-01987 0006-0204. “Hey, do you wanna spar with Iris again? In front of me and Iggy.  Princess can be there too, if you want, but he’d probably be unconscious for the whole thing.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  He likes- sparring, with Iris.  She is small but strong and clever, and very interesting.  He doesn’t know why Iggy and Gladio would want to watch, but he doesn’t mind.  

 

Maybe it’s a test.  Yes, it is probably a test.  He will perform well, and they will be pleased with him.  He smiles.

 

Gladio slaps him on the back.  It’s a gentle hit, and after one terrified moment N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes- oh.  It’s like what Aranea used to do. To show approval.

 

“Good,” he says, sounding triumphant.  Behind him, Iggy sighs hard through his nose.

 

“You do not have to if you do not want to,” he says, firm, studying N H-01987 0006-0204.  “Gladio is merely being recalcitrant.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know _ recalcitrant.  _  Iggy seems- concerned.  It is hard to read his expressions.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to study him closer, but Iris is practically bouncing from toe to toe now, and her excitement is very distracting.

 

“C’mon,” she adds, and then takes his arm and tugs him down the hall.  N H-01987 0006-0204 follows, bewildered, and soon they make a little marching line to the sparring building, Gladio storming ahead and Iggy following like an angry shadow, and N H-01987 0006-0204 and Iris between them.

 

“Don’t mind them,” she whispers in his ear.  “Iggy just thinks sparring freaks you out. He’s never actually _ seen _ you spar.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Why would sparring- freak him out?  Sparring is excellent reinforcement of biological and mechanical knowledge.  And he  _ knows _ it.  Sparring has rules.

 

“I like your hair!” Iris adds, at a more normal volume.  “Did Iggy do it? It looks nice. Like a chocobo’s butt, but in a good way.”

 

“I cannot claim credit,” Iggy says.  Then, to N H-01987 0006-0204, “Please- I assure you that if sparring makes you at all uncomfortable-”

 

“It  _ doesn’t,” _ Gladio interrupts from in front, sounding annoyed.

 

“I am aware of your opinion, Gladiolus.”

 

“Ooh, full name,” Iris whispers.  “He’s in trouble now.”

 

They reach the sparring building with little incident.  Iggy and Gladio are talking, but N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand most of it.  The words of their discussion aren’t hostile, but their tones are- something. Gladio is heavy with something fiery and angry, rumbling like a storm about to break, and Iggy is frigid and cold.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels caught in the tenseness between them.  Nervous. But he wants to please them, and maybe Cor will be in the sparring building.

 

When they get to the room, Gladio sets Iris and N H-01987 0006-0204 a few feet apart.  Iggy is off to the side, arms crossed, eyebrow furrowed. N H-01987 0006-0204 watches him, distracted, because- he seems concerned.

 

“Can we fight with weapons this time?” Iris asks, excited.

 

“No,” Gladio says shortly.  Iggy’s mouth is thin-lipped.

 

“Boo,” Iris says, but she bounces from side to side and doesn’t push it anymore.  She smiles at N H-01987 0006-0204. “Ready to blow their socks off?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what that means.  He blinks at her, bewildered, but settles into a fighting stance.  She seems pleased.

 

“What’s your tap-out sign?” Gladio asks him roughly.  

 

It takes N H-01987 0006-0204 a minute to realize what he means, but then he flashes the thumb-and-index-finger circle gesture.  Iris doesn’t laugh this time, seems distracted by excitement for the spar.

 

“Good,” Gladio says shortly.  “Okay, no maiming, no killing, no drawing blood, if one of you wants to stop, we stop.  Okay?”

 

Iris nods, short and excited.  “Yeah, yeah, c’mon!”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 smiles.

 

“Great,” Gladio says.  _  “Start!” _

 

\---

 

The fight isn’t exactly the same as last time.  Iris appears to remember and learn some of his tricks, and adapts accordingly.  In particular, she tries the tripping-form on him. That’s fine. He counters it almost unconsciously, and uses the brief scramble on her end to push his offence.

 

Iris is slower then he is, but is hitting with the same strength, so N H-01987 0006-0204 tentatively thinks that she is as strong as him or stronger.  She is also- so clever. Fighting her is hard, but a good hard. Like solving a puzzle, but very fast.

 

He also has longer reach.  He tries to keep some distance, but she always manages to worm her way close, so dodging is a constant fight.

 

He can also sense Iggy in his short-area sensors.  His arms are still crossed.

 

Is Iggy- mad?  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t  _ think  _ so.  He didn’t tell N H-01987 0006-0204 not to spar, but he seemed- uncomfortable.  Worried. Did Iggy want N H-01987 0006-0204 not to spar?

 

Iris is suddenly in his face, hooking her foot around his ankle, hits him once, twice, pushes him over.

 

He hits the ground, snaps back into the fight.  He’s too late. Iris shouts triumphantly and comes rushing down on his chest, pinning his arms to his sides.

 

“Ha!” she shouts.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wiggles, squirms, but he’s well and truly pinned.  He swallows. What if Iggy and Gladio were displeased? Would they be? It was sparring, but they never said they expected him to win.

 

Either way, he can’t free himself.  Not without hurting Iris. He goes limp, blinks at her.

 

“I  _ got  _ ya,” Iris says, beaming, and then lets him up.  She holds out a hand to assist him upright. N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks this signals the end of the spar, so he takes it, lets her pull him up.

 

“See?” Gladio says, off to the side.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 glances over.  Gladio is watching Iggy. Iggy’s brow is furrowed, and he’s staring at the ground.

 

“Can we fight with weapons  _ now?” _ Iris says.

 

_ “No,”  _ Gladio says, at the same time as Iggy says, “Absolutely  _ not.” _

 

“Booooo,” Iris says.  

 

Gladio and Iggy both seem to ignore her.  “I still cannot believe you,” Iggy is saying.

 

“He  _ knows _ it!” Gladio growls.  “Having something familiar is grounding.  We have soldiers spar all the time! It’s a part of post-term cool-down; you can’t just  _ stop.” _

 

“Soldiers stop every day.  He’s a  _ child!” _

 

“He’s Noct’s age!  Fuck, it’d be worse for him to be thrust into a completely unfamiliar environment with nothing to anchor him-”

 

“Fighting is _ not  _ a healthy anchor!  Gladio, you are asking a traumatized minor to spar-”

 

Their voices are rising.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand, but he feels frightened, tense.  He looks back and forth between them, afraid. Are Iggy and Gladio going to attack each other?  He doesn’t want them to. He doesn’t want them to so badly it feels like a sickness in him.

 

“Wow,” Iris says, softly.  She elbows his side. “Wanna ditch?”

 

The elbow in his side doesn’t hurt, but it still feels like- too much.  N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks and turns to look at her. He realizes his eyes are very wide.

 

Iris grimaces at whatever expression he’s making.  Her face is- very expressive, more than Noct. Even more than Gladio.  Then she the grimace fades into a concerned frown.

 

“C’mon,” she says, gentle.  She hooks her arm through his elbow.  “They won’t notice anyway, and it’ll give them time to hash out whatever their problem is.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t quite understand.  But Iris tugs him, gently, and starts to lead him away.  He follows.

 

\---

 

They go down a different hallway, then up some stairs and make a couple of turns.  The further they go from Iggy and Gladio, the easier N H-01987 0006-0204’s breathing is.  He doesn’t want- he likes them. They are good. But he still feels better the further they get.

 

They end up in a smaller room, still wide enough for several partners to spar, but not quite as big as the large sparring room.  There are also a series of- windows, but in the ceiling. Glass panels in the ceiling. They let light in, the room lit by pale yellow sunlight.

 

It makes an interesting pattern of light and shade on the floor.  N H-01987 0006-0204 nudges the border of a square of light, and it’s pleasing, to feel the coolness on his feet and then the faint warmth on his toes.

 

There is a series of racks and shelves at one end of the room.  They seem to hold several weapons of varying types.

 

“C’mon,” Iris says, excited.  She lets go of N H-01987 0006-0204, scampers over to the other end.  She’s bouncing, excited.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 follows.  Didn’t Gladio and Iggy say- not to fight with weapons?

 

But Iris is trailing her hands along one of the racks, considering.  She takes a wooden practice sword that is- much too big for her size, and tugs on it.  The end falls to the floor with a clunk.

 

“Fuck,” she huffs, and then heaves it off the ground.  She spins in a circle for a minute, stumbling and trying to find her feet, before finding an equilibrium and tottering back towards N H-01987 0006-0204 with it.

 

“Go on,” she adds, excited.  “Pick your favorite- I’ll take you on.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 watches her for a minute more.  There’s something about- the huge sword, like a club in her hands, that makes something small and bubbly happen in his stomach.

 

Amusement.  He finds her- amusing.

 

He realizes he’s smiling at her when she meets his eyes and huffs.

 

“Oh, shut up,” she grins, even though he hasn’t said anything.  “Go on, pick something.”

 

Iggy and Gladio both said they couldn’t fight with weapons.  But Iris is bright, and beaming, and holding a sword much too big for her.  She is- amusing. And clever. And  _ small. _  He wants her to be happy.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204, a little helplessly, goes to the weapon rack.

 

They are all close-range weapons.  He searches carefully for guns, end to end, but his data on common weaponry state they are rare outside of the Empire.  He finds none.

 

He shouldn’t be disappointed.  He can just pick a different weapon.  It’s fine.

 

There is a long staff on one end.  He blinks it. It’s a thin quarterstaff, shaved down so it can’t kill with a hit.  Both ends are cushioned with something soft- yes, it is a practice weapon.

 

He could use it as a lance.  Aranea’s data is sharp in his head and his breath is suddenly quicker in his throat.  He could- use it as a lance.

 

He takes it.  Weighs it both hands.  Yes.

 

Aranea’s lance was longer, and had magitech besides, boosters strong enough to launch both lance and wielder into the air.  But she made him learn how to jump without the boosters first, with his biological muscles and using the lance as a lever.

 

Now, if he uses a lance, he can spring himself up to four times his own height.

 

He looks up at the ceiling.  He can’t jump to his highest, but he could jump and push  _ off _ of the ceiling.  He’s never thought about that.  Would that work?

 

“C’moooon!” Iris howls.  “Let’s see what you got!”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what the words mean, but the tone is clear.  She’s excited. She wants to spar. She’s challenging him.

 

Aranea’s data is sharp and clear in his head.  He feels- steady. Steadier than he’s been in a long time, and something else, a rising feeling in his chest.  Excitement.

 

He remembers Aranea’s face, the bright, cruel jackal smile, right before she overpowered whatever she was fighting.  How confident, how excited she looked. He feels something similar tugging on his face.

 

He turns to Iris, spinning the staff in his hands until one end hovers, two inches off the mat.  He thinks of Aranea. Smiles at Iris, the bright jackal smile.

 

_ Now hit me, _ he thinks, and knows, with sudden complete confidence, she won’t be able to.

 

Iris grins back, just as excited, and hurls herself down the length of the mat.

 

She can move fast with the sword, faster than N H-01987 0006-0204 expected.  His sensors adjust automatically, and he activates Aranea’s data when Iris is maybe a foot away from him.

 

He jams one end into the mattress, hurls his weight forward.  Pole-jumps up.

 

He goes spinning toward the ceiling, the staff in both hands.  He twists so he’s facing Iris, sees her dumbfounded face in the seconds before the fall.

 

He comes hurtling down, like Aranea used to do, quicksilver and lightning. 

 

Iris recovers fast, tries to catch him.  Fails utterly. He snaps the staff around, hits her with the cotton-end, hard enough to send her hurtling the length of the room.

 

He lands on his feet, lance at ready position, just as Iris crashes to the ground in a semi-controlled roll, managing, just barely, to come to her feet.

 

He is excited.  He is so excited.  He is smiling, uncontrollably, an open mouthed smile that he’s panting through, soundless and brilliant.

 

“What was _ that!”  _ Iris howls.  She looks delighted and winded.  “What the fuck! What the  _ fuck!  _  Do it again!”

 

She launches herself at him, sword held two handed and backwards, at guard.  The point drags on the mat, makes a squealing noise as she hurtles towards him.

 

He blocks her first swing, her second, his breath excited and wonderful, and because she said to do it again, he swipes her sword to the side and launches himself over her head, twisting as he goes.

 

She laughs, watching wide eyed in delight and- and wonder.  She’s looking at him in  _ wonder. _

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels strange, filled with something large and warm and wonderful.  Yes. Yes. He is good. He is- wonderful. 

 

He lands, and launches himself at her again.

 

\---

 

They spar for a long time.  It doesn’t feel like a long time- it feels like hardly any time at all, but they both gradually slow.  Iris pants and laughs and is delighted, still delighted, each time, like she’ll never get used to the lance jumps.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 understand.  He _ understands. _  He still watches-  _ watched _ Aranea in wonder, each time she did it.  How wonderful and bright she looked, her hair flashing silver in the sun, coming down like a falling star.

 

But eventually they begin to slow, and then stop completely, Iris laid out flat on the mat, panting.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 watches her for a little bit, unsure of what he’s supposed to do.

 

“C’mon,” Iris wheezes, and whacks the mat next to her.  

 

Oh.  She wants him to be next to her.  He moves and sits down next to her.  Waits.

 

“All the way down,” Iris grumbles, pulls on him.  He goes down willingly, so they’re lying side by side.  Iris is staring up at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded, so N H-01987 0006-0204 looks up too.

 

They lay like that for awhile.  The sunlight is warm on his torso.  He can see up, through the glass window in the ceiling, a square of blue sky, a section of pale cloud.

 

He remembers Aranea.  He remembers her laughter, her silver hair.  Remembers her holding him up in the lake, a hand on his neck and another on his back.  Remembers the sky, a blue so vast it eats up all the corners of his vision, makes him feel impossibly small.

 

He feels small now.  Looking up at the blue sky, remembering the vastness of it.  It still makes him feel small, even though he can only see a small square of it.

 

But Iris is smaller.

 

She’s not- that small.  A head shorter than him.  But she’s such a skinny, bright little thing, easily excited.

 

He wants- to protect her.  Even though he understands she is capable of defending herself.  The need to defend her is strong. The need to- teach her. Let her become- more, learn new skills.  That need is strong.

 

He wants her to be happy.  It’s different than what he feels towards Iggy, or Gladio, or even Noct.  He wants Iggy and Gladio to be happy, but there are very few actions he can take to make them happy, and they seem largely self-sufficient.  

 

He wants Noct to be happy- in a way that feels strange, strong and fragile together.  He liked teaching him, when he taught them both the lance-trip trick. But it doesn’t feel like- a need.  Like with Iris.

 

He remembers Aranea looking at him, over a year ago now, with the freezing wind outside.  Something soft and fond, protective. Remembers that she taught him despite not needing to, remembers not understanding why.

 

He thinks he’s starting to understand.

 

\---

 

After a little while, the door opens.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks upright.  He hadn’t sensed another human coming, had been too busy remembering.  One arm is half raised over Iris before he can stop it, protective.

 

It’s Cor.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  It’s Cor. He can- ask. He can…

 

Cor watches him, expressionless for a moment.  Than looks at Iris.

 

“Amicitia,” he says.

 

Iris snorts and jerks on the floor, blinking her eyes open.  “Wassut,” she says.

 

“Your brother is looking for you,” Cor says.

 

His voice is deep and flat.  It’s not as deep as Gladio’s, but somehow- stronger.  More rigid.

 

“Oh, fuck,” Iris says.  She scrambles to her feet, hauls the sword back towards the racks.  Cor watches her go. N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to think, how does he ask about gods?  How does he put that together? What gestures would make sense?

 

“C’mon,” Iris says to him.  She’s back, and holding out her hand.  “Gladdy’s probably losing his mind.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 takes it, lets her haul him to his feet.

 

“Put your staff away and let’s go,” Iris says.  She seems hurried.

 

“That won’t be necessary,” Cor says, flat.  “I’ll walk him back to his room.”

 

Yes.  Yes, Cor will walk with him, and then he can- point at the book.  Yes. N H-01987 0006-0204 scrambles to his feet, hurriedly, leaves the staff on the floor.  Remembers it, picks it up. Puts it away, comes hurrying back.

 

Iris is looking at Cor.  Seems nervous. 

 

“Um,” she says.  “It’s really no problem, Marshal, I can take him?  I’m sure Iggy wants to see him, and all.”

 

Cor watches her.  Says nothing. Iris seems to scramble.

 

“I m-mean,” she stutters, “He’s- good.  It was my idea to fight with weapons, sir, really.  He wouldn’t know any better, he’s like- a puppy. Sir-”

 

“Amicitia,” Cor says, a little gentler.  “Neither of you are in trouble. I have been fully briefed on his situation.”

 

“Oh,” Iris says.  She sounds a little small, confused.  “You know he doesn’t- y’know...”

 

“I have been fully briefed,” Cor repeats.

 

“Oh,” Iris says.  She is looking back and forth between them now.  N H-01987 0006-0204 looks back at her. He- really wants to talk to Cor.  Well, gesture with Cor. Iris seems nervous, but Cor has fought- Cor knows about gods.  N H-01987 0006-0204 has to talk to him. 

 

He feels strange, nervous, shaky but good.  He is going to communicate with Cor. He is going to get relevant data.

 

“Uh,” Iris says.  “Y-you’re good, right?  Are you okay with going with- the Marshal?”

 

He thinks Marshal is one of Cor’s names.  He smiles immediately.

 

“Oh,” Iris says in a small voice.  Then, “Okay. Uh. I’ll tell- Iggy?  I’m telling Iggy.”

 

The last part she directs at Cor.  Her tone makes it sound almost like a threat.  That- makes little sense.

 

Maybe it wasn’t a threat.  Cor doesn’t react like it is one, just watches her.  Iris gives N H-01987 0006-0204 one last furtive look, and then scampers out of the room.  She runs down the hall out of N H-01987 0006-0204’s sensors. 

 

He is alone with Cor now.  He can- ask. He must find a way to ask.

 

Cor doesn’t give him time.  He watches the empty hall for a moment, than turns on his heel, the sharp about-face soldiers do.

 

“Follow me,” he says, flat, and walks away.

 

It’s an order.  N H-01987 0006-0204 hurries, and follows at his heels.

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is so busy trying work out how he is going to ask about gods that he doesn’t notice they’re going an unfamiliar way for a little while.  But then he does, and he opens the mapping program, confused.

 

Cor said he was taking him to his rooms.  N H-01987 0006-0204 tentatively thought this meant the room with the cot, where he slept.  But they aren’t going that way.

 

The book is in the room with the cot.  How is he going to ask without the book?

 

His stomach is thrumming with nerves and dread.  He isn’t- going to be able to ask Cor. He’s going to waste his chance.

 

They’re in a part of the building Iggy said he wasn’t authorized to enter.  N H-01987 0006-0204 falters, but Cor ordered him to follow. He must follow orders.

 

They take an unfamiliar turn, then another.  Then Cor opens a door, walks inside.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 follows.  It is an unfamiliar room, mostly empty.  There is a desk and a chair at one end. There is a stack of paper, neatly ordered, and a computer.  There is a window. There is, hung on a coat rack, a long sheath. N H-01987 0006-0204 recognizes that it is for a katana.

 

Cor closes the door behind them.  It clicks, and N H-01987 0006-0204 hears a dull mechanical sound, like the door is locking further into place into the wall.

 

Something is wrong.  Something is- very wrong.

 

Cor circles around the desk.  Pulls something out of the drawer, a piece of paper marked up with ink.  A map.

 

He slides it across the desk towards N H-01987 0006-0204.  Something is stirring in his expression, behind the flat eyes, something large and well-contained and angry.

 

“Alright, kid,” Cor growls.  _  “Where’s Aranea?” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> knock knock its the plot


	11. Chapter 11

N H-01987 0006-0204 must be malfunctioning.

 

He must have misheard.  It- it must be like when his vision malfunctions, and he sees things that aren’t there.  But he’s hearing it.

 

But it’s- Aranea.  Cor said _Aranea._  He can’t know her.  Why would he know her?  

 

It isn’t correct.  Something isn’t correct.  But something is creeping up in his head, giddy and hopeful, attached to the idea that someone else knows Aranea.  That someone knows. That Cor _knows._

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 has been silent too long.   _You said Aranea,_ he thinks, stupidly, forgetting that Cor can’t hear his thoughts.  He makes half a gesture, his hands coming up, confused. He’s staring wide eyed at Cor, he realizes.  

 

Behind Cor’s neutral expression is something dangerous.  Something like anger, but controlled. Cold fury.

 

He growls, “I know you can point.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand.  He can’t understand. He’s staring at Cor, caught between the idea that he might know Aranea, and the dreadful certainty that he can’t.

 

Cor watches him for a minute.  Then moves, slow but deliberate, turns to the sheath on the coat rack.  Pulls out a long, thin shining katana. It is silver in the light. Cor stands with it casually in his hand, the complete comfort of a weaponmaster.  Its point hovers a bare inch off the floor.

 

 _“Aranea,_ kid,” Cor growls.  “Point at the damn map.”

 

He knows Aranea.  He _knows._

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 didn’t mishear.  Cor knows. Someone knows, someone who isn’t Ardyn, who isn’t- isn’t poison.  

 

He realizes his eyes are leaking, his breath hitching in and out, and he’s staring at Cor.  His face remains hard and impassive in N H-01987 0006-0204’s blurred vision.

 

Someone knows.

 

There is a persistent, buzzing noise in his ears, like static.  His mouth feels very dry and his tongue too large for his throat.  He is breathing very fast. His fingertips and toes are starting to prickle and numb.

 

His breath hitches in his throat, once, twice.  He tries not to make noise, has to struggle not to.  The result is a sort of suffocated whistling breath, kept from whimpering by force of will.

 

Cor knows.  N H-01987 0006-0204 needs to breathe and Cor- he knows.  He knows.

 

Cor knows and he’s watching N H-01987 0006-0204 with the hard, stoney expression, immovable, cold anger, like-

 

Like N H-01987 0006-0204 is an enemy.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand.  Cor knows Aranea, and he knows N H-01987 0006-0204 knows Aranea.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is not an enemy. N H-01987 0006-0204 is- useful, he can be useful, and he can help Cor find Aranea.

 

Cor wants him to- point at the map.  Wants to know where Aranea is.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know.  His eyes are blurry. He looks at the map, blinks, and the water drops out of his eyes and slides down his face.

 

He doesn’t recognize the map area.  He scans it, helplessly. It appears to be of a large landmass, surrounded on three sides by water.  It is criss-crossed with thin, spindly lines, and is dotted with words.

 

He has to be helpful.  Cor is watching him with hard eyes, and he has to be _useful._

 

It takes him a minute to find anything he recognizes.  But in the lower right hand corner is a circle, a little ovular, marked with a star.  It is labeled _Insomnia._  And a little above and to the left of it, is a much smaller dot marked _Hammerhead._

 

He jabs a finger at it. _Hammerhead._ He knows that.

 

Cor is frowning, looking at his finger.

 

“She’s in Hammerhead?” he says.

 

Aranea’s- not in Hammerhead.  Right. She couldn’t be. She’s in a daemon shape, and humans kill daemons.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know where she is, but Cor wants to know.  And Cor knows Aranea. He knows her, and N H-01987 0006-0204 wants so badly to help Cor, to prove himself useful.  

 

He tries to think, of where she would go, in her new daemon shape.  Somewhere with caves. And food, and water.

 

He doesn’t think she would move far.  She had wanted to come this way. The day Ardyn- had been there, that was the last day they were supposed to be traveling.

 

He considers Hammerhead.  Traces a wider area around it, tries to convey _near here._  Looks at Cor again.

 

Cor watches him for a minute.  Sheathes the katana again.

 

“Is she compromised?” he asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows _compromised_ means _unable to fulfill current duties._  He smiles at Cor, his vision blurry with tears.

 

Cor looks back at him.  Is still quiet. N H-01987 0006-0204’s smile falters on his face.

 

“Shake your head yes or no, kid,” Cor says.  “I’m not a mind reader.”

 

He- can’t.  He can’t do either of those things.  Does Cor not know about- smiling?

 

He wouldn’t.  Why would he? Noct and Iggy and Gladio and Iris knew about that, but why would anyone else?

 

His breathing is too fast.  Someone else knows Aranea and he can’t talk to them, he can’t.

 

Cor is watching him, frowning,

 

“Can you sign?” he asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 knows _sign_ to be a plaque or otherwise written word or symbol to convey the name or purpose of a place.  It’s not a verb. It’s not-

 

Cor is makes hand signals with his fingers.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.

 

 _Confirm,_ he signals.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.

 

It wasn’t talking.  It wasn’t writing. It wasn’t typing.  It was- gesturing. Gesturing with a purpose.  Gesturing with more specific meanings.

 

It wouldn’t count.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 slowly, disbelieving, forms a hand-signal. _Affirmative._

 

Nothing happens.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 waits.  Ardyn doesn’t appear. He doesn’t- know if Aranea is okay.  But it wasn’t against the rules, and Ardyn didn’t appear, and time keeps clicking forward in his internal clock and nothing bad happens.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes that he’s crying freely now.  He feels like he’s flying. He can signal. He can _signal._

 

Cor is watching him.  Signals, _health check._  Taps his ear.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204, slow, still shaking, signals back, _fully functioning._

 

“So you can hear me?”

 

He can.  He _can._  He signs _affirmative._

 

“Good.  Is she compromised?”

 

_Affirmative._

 

“What happened?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204… doesn’t know how to explain.  Hand signals were- for stealth missions, or combat.  It was for words like- like _left, right, behind, in front, follow, engage._  There weren’t enough words.  There weren’t enough _words._

 

 _Danger,_ he signals.  It’s- the closest. _Danger._

 

He realizes he’s staring at nothing, crying.  He’s so- His stomach feels swamped and strange, and he feels like he’s being swept under a tide of something, crushed by a great weight.  Cor knows Aranea, he can use hand signasl, and it’s- so much. Everything is just too much.

 

After a minute Cor’s eyes flicker.  He turns and ruffles through his desk.  Pulls out something new, a graph full of squares.

 

He flips through it.  Holds it open, out to N H-01987 0006-0204.

 

“When did you last see her?” he says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  Blinks at the page. Each square is marked with a number.  There are thirty-five squares in all, but the page only counts up to thirty before it starts labeling them again.  Each column is marked with a title only three or four letters long; _Sun, Mon, Tues, Wed._

 

He doesn’t understand.  But he scans it, sees at the top: _Sept. (9)_ And above that, it reads _Year M. E. 752._

 

It’s- to tell time.  It’s to tell the year.  

 

He reaches for it, hesitant.  Cor’s grip is tight, but he frowns and lets him take it.

 

He flips through.  There are twelve pages, all using the graph formula, although what square it begins counting varies throughout the first row.  It takes him a minute to understand: the squares are days, and each page is a month.

 

He last saw Aranea on the fifteenth day of the sixth month.  He flips to the sixth page. Jabs his finger at the day.

 

Cor is really frowning now.

 

“Is she alive?” he asks.

 

Yes.  Yes, she has to be.  She can’t- she can’t be dead.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes that he’s signing _affirmative,_ pushing the hand towards Cor, insistent.  His eyes are so blurry he can’t see, but he shoves the signal towards him.

 

“Alright,” Cor says, “I get it, kid.”

 

He gets it.  He understands.  Aranea is alive. Yes.  Aranea is alive and she’ll stay alive, because N H-01987 0006-0204 is going to fulfill the deal-

 

Something occurs to N H-01987 0006-0204, something blooming and wonderful and terrifying.

 

 _Danger,_ he signs, and points at his wristband.

 

Cor is frowning.  Silent.

 

 _Danger,_ N H-01987 0006-0204 repeats, insistent, and jabs his finger at the skull and feathers.  He doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t dare.

 

Cor watches him, silent for a minute.

 

“His Lordship is in danger?” he asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know _his Lordship._  From context he believes it to mean Ardyn, and Ardyn isn’t in danger.  Ardyn _is_ dangerous.

 

 _Negative,_ he signals.  Then, carefully, _enemy combatant,_ the signs for _danger_ and _unit_ together.  Points at the skull and feathers again.

 

Cor’s face is expressionless.  The anger is still there. N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.

 

Please, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks.

 

“Did he compromise Aranea?” Cor asks.

 

It feels like- light.  Yes. Yes. He _did._

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 signs, shaking, _affirmative._

 

He’s told someone.  Someone knows. About, about Ardyn and danger.  Someone _knows._

 

Cor’s eyes are still flat and hard.  He doesn’t look like he’s processing the information.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s stomach starts to sink, his breathing still irregular, his eyes and nose swelling and leaking.  What if he thinks N H-01987 0006-0204’s data is faulty? What if- what if he tells-

 

He can’t.  He can’t tell Ardyn.  He knows gods, he knows Aranea, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

 

After a moment Cor closes his eyes.  Opens them again.

 

“Tell no one,” he says.  “Don’t sign to anyone but me.  Don’t aggravate anyone. _Don’t. Talk._ to _anyone_ who looks military.  Understand?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 understands.  He is not to use hand signals- to _sign_ \- to anyone but Cor.  He is already trying not to aggravate any humans, and he cannot talk besides.  Cor isn’t going to talk to Ardyn. He _wouldn’t._

 

He signs _affirmative._

 

“I’ll find you later,” Cor says.  “Stay in the Citadel. I’ll find you if you run.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 swallows.  Cor will find him- later. Yes.  He signs _affirmative._

 

Cor breathes out hard through his nose.  His eyes are on the desk now. His face is still hard-lined, stoney.

 

“You can leave,” he says, shortly.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t want to leave.  Cor knows Aranea. He wants- he wants-

 

He needs Cor to be pleased with him.  He needs Cor to see he is good, and useful.  And- Cor wants him to leave.

 

He leaves.

 

\---

 

He gets about halfway down the hallway before he needs to sit down.

 

He feels- lightheaded.  His heart is very fast. He is still crying.  And he is caught in- in something. In wonder.  He feels so _light._

 

 _Aranea,_ he thinks, and water runs from his eyes and nose and he can’t stop the blinding, wonderful thing rising in him.   _Aranea, Aranea, Aranea._

 

He’s not the only one who knows.  He’s not alone.

 

\---

 

Some time later, he stumbles to his feet.

 

He feels- too big for his body, like if he stays any longer in his own skin he’ll shake apart.  He feels caught in- something, like he’s being drowned. Someone knows. Cor knows, and he knows gods and Aranea and now he knows about Ardyn, and N H-01987 0006-0204 can sign, and- and- it’s all- so much.

 

It’s so good.  It’s so good it frightens N H-01987 0006-0204.  It can’t be that good. It can’t.

 

He’s shaking.  He needs- something.

 

He starts towards the room with the large cot out of habit.  Shuffles and slows, uncertain if he wants to go there, or- to find Iggy, or maybe Noct.

 

It feels like too much.

 

He goes to his room.  

 

It’s the same room, and the same cot, and it somehow feels tremendously different.  The walls seem both closer and further away, the dressers brighter in color. The dress is tangled and dark, thorny at the foot of the cot, rusted brown.

 

He watches the thorny dress for a while.

 

He could read the book.  He could work on the dress.  He feels shaky and light, not real, and his brain doesn’t function well enough to drive him to action, so he stands still.  Drifts.

 

\---

 

After a while it occurs to him that Iggy will be making dinner, and he likes the food Iggy makes.

 

He forces himself into motion.  He feels not-real, still, but not slow.  Just removed, like everything is two inches off of where it’s supposed to be, like he’s following behind his body and not actually in it.

 

His mind drifts to Cor, to Aranea.  He feels light and strange and on the verge of crying.

 

Iggy’s rooms are quiet when N H-01987 0006-0204 arrives.  But the door is unlocked, and he can hear someone’s footsteps in the kitchen, and he can see the orange-yellow silhouette of Iggy in his short range sensors.

 

Iggy was- displeased, earlier, N H-01987 0006-0204 remembers.  He stands frozen in the doorway for a minute.

 

He had forgotten.  Maybe he should go back.

 

But the air smells very good.  Iggy is doing something over a pot that glows red in his short range sensors, radiating heat, and it smells- a little sweet, a little savory, and the unique almost-malboro smell that meant _garlic._

 

And he is still- floating, almost, filled with light.  His limbs are trembling almost imperceptibly, an invisible twitch.  He wants- something. Something. And Iggy is good, and steady, and will help him.

 

He doesn’t know where the certainty comes from, that Iggy will help him.  Iggy has helped him before. Iggy has looked displeased before, but has continued helping him.  But Iggy wants him to see doctors, and what Iggy thinks will help is not always correct.

 

But Iggy helps.  And… he helps with this, when N H-01987 0006-0204 is a little strange, a little unsteady.

 

He inches inside.

 

Iggy doesn’t notice him until he comes to stand in the doorway.  His expressions are hard to read, his face still and even, he seems- something.  The skin is a little tight around his mouth and eyes.

 

He looks up and suddenly there is a knife in his hand.  But he blinks at N H-01987 0006-0204, disconcerted, and puts the knife back down on the counter.

 

“Ah, hello,” he says.  I didn’t hear you knock.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 didn’t knock.  Was he supposed to?

 

Iggy is watching him.  His expression is still hard to read, but there’s a little furrow between his eyebrows, like he’s trying to solve a difficult problem.  N H-01987 0006-0204 still feels strange and detached, but Iggy’s eyes seem to push at something in his brain, begin to wiggle under the numbness.

 

“I have been rather preoccupied,” Iggy says, turning back to the pot.  He sounds tired. “Come in and make yourself at home. I’ll make you some tea.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Shuffles into the kitchen. Iggy looks tired.  Why is Iggy tired?

 

Iggy glances up at N H-01987 0006-0204.  Smiles, the small Iggy smile, a sort of twitch at the corners of his mouth.

 

“I always appreciate help, if you’d prefer.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t- quite understand that.  But Iggy turns from the pot on the stove, takes down a wooden surface- _cutting board,_ N H-01987 0006-0204 remembers- and an assortment of plants.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 helps by chopping the series of plants Iggy calls _herbs,_ which Iggy mixes into the pot.  And then he helps by removing the bones from raw meat.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 sucks the pinkish fluids off his fingers the way Aranea taught him was appropriate with red meats, until Iggy catches him doing it and makes him wash his hands several times.  Iggy strictly tells him to not eat any kind of raw meat, ever. This is contradictory to Aranea’s instructions, which were that it was better to cook meat, but if a cooking fire was too risky to establish, some of the internal organs of some animals were within acceptable risk factor to eat raw.

 

There are- many contradictions between what Aranea said and what- Iggy, and Gladio, and the other humans here sometimes say.  But the difference was small, not the gaping difference between here and the facility.

 

His chest hurts.  He wants- Aranea. He wants her to touch his forehead with her knuckles, gentle.

 

He helps cut the meat into even sections.  Tries not to think.

 

At some point Iggy cracks open eggs and stirs them with a fork until they are blended together, and dips the meat sections into them, and into something that looks like sand.  He lays them on- a sort of flat pot with a long handle.

 

They make sharp spitting and hissing noises when they come down.  N H-01987 0006-0204 jumps, startled, a little over a foot and a half in the air.

 

But Iggy, with his back turned to him, seem unperturbed by the noise, so N H-01987 0006-0204 comes creeping back.

 

“These are breaded cutlets with tomato sauce,” Iggy says.  He turns one of the meat sections in the flat pot. “Have you had it before?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 has not had- _breaded cutlets with tomato sauce._ He watches the pot as it hisses like a small, dangerous animal.

 

Iggy glances at him out of the corner of his eye.  

 

“Apologies,” he says, “I should have asked if that was to your taste.  If you dislike it I have plenty of leftovers in the fridge.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204- wouldn’t dislike it.  The noise is concerning, but Iggy’s food is always good.  He straightens cautiously. The pot still hisses and spits, but Iggy seems unaffected, so N H-01987 0006-0204 decides that it must not present any danger.

 

“Noctis and Gladio both have family matters,” Iggy says.  “It will be just us for dinner tonight.”

 

Iggy’s words don’t always make sense.  N H-01987 0006-0204 understands each individual word, but Iggy strings them together in combinations N H-01987 0006-0204 has never heard, and he often finds struggling to calculate the meaning of a sentence.

 

He thinks Iggy means that Noct and Gladio are busy, and that Iggy and he will have dinner without them.  He is briefly afraid that they won’t be fed, but humans always eat at this particular time, so N H-01987 0006-0204 concludes that they will be eating, just not in Iggy’s rooms.

 

The food is good.  He eats by stabbing the fork into the meat and biting at the whole section, until Iggy, a little exasperated, instructs him on how to use a knife to cut it into bite-sized pieces.

 

They eat for a while.  It is quiet. The window next to the table is dark with the faded night sky, and the meat is good, savory and chewy and covered in the strange sandlike texture that doesn’t taste like sand at all.  It tastes like- the bread from grilled cheese. Bread cooked in oil.

 

Iggy is silent.  His face is still expressionless, hard to read, but he seems- something.  Tired.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels something in his stomach, creeping upward.  Iggy is tired. Something has made him tired. He was displeased earlier, with Gladio, and now he is tired and something else.  Accepting. Tired but accepting of something bad.

 

Resigned.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 wants to help.  Help Iggy feel better, lighter. He doesn’t know how, and he hesitates, fork hovering over his plate.

 

Iggy must see something, because he blinks, sits a little straighter.  Looks N H-01987 0006-0204 square in the face.

 

“I have something important to say that may cause you some distress,” he says, businesslike.  “Is that alright?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Iggy is human and can do what he wants, but he’s watching N H-01987 0006-0204.  Like he’s waiting for some signal. N H-01987 0006-0204 tries a smile, a little uncertain.

 

This seems to be the right answer, because Iggy acknowledges it with a nod.

 

“I am charged with the caretaking of the young prince,” he says.  “I have done so most of my life and nearly all of his, and I have acted mistakenly as though this same knowledge would apply to you.

 

“I do not fully know your needs.  I have presumed, incorrectly, and did not consider that your experiences might be radically different and require radically different help.

 

“I want to help you, but I do not know how.  Does this make sense?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares, bewildered.  Iggy- does help. Iggy helps all the time.  Iggy makes good food and offers definitions for things N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand, Iggy helps N H-01987 0006-0204 breathe slowly.

 

Iggy watches him for a moment, frowning.  He adjusts his glasses.

 

“Let me rephrase,” he says.  “I wish to help you. But I may make mistakes and will not always assist in a way that is actually helpful to you.

 

“If I do something that causes you discomfort,” he says, “Or if I say something wrong, please let me know.  I will try to be better.”

 

Iggy is- good, Iggy is better, better than N H-01987 0006-0204.  Iggy is human, but more than that, Iggy, cooks and breathes and watches N H-01987 0006-0204 carefully and teaches him and feeds him hot chocolate.  Iggy is good. Iggy is always helping.

 

Iggy is helping, but he thinks he is not helping.  Or helping wrong.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitates, struggles to communicate that- that Iggy is good, that Iggy is helpful.  Remembers Iggy helping him breathe, remembers Iggy holding his hand and guiding him through the breathing exercise.

 

He reaches for Iggy’s hand.  Iggy lets him take it, eyebrows furrowed, confused.  N H-01987 0006-0204 gestures between them. Breathes in deliberately.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 sees the moment Iggy understands, when his shoulders lose some of their tension, when he smiles faintly.  When Iggy copies his breathing.

 

They sit, and breathe together for a while.

 

\---

 

He dreams:

 

“What is a kid?” he asks Aranea.

 

Aranea coughs in the middle of drinking, slopping water down her chin and onto her hand.  She chokes for a moment, and N H-01987 0006-0204 watches, nervous.

 

But she straightens up and seems alright, though she looks at her damp hand in disgust.  Wipes her mouth.

 

“Shit,” she says.  Seems- something. N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know the names for many emotions, and Aranea seems to experience an enormous range of them.  This one is like… like she thinks an ambush might be coming, but isn’t sure.

 

“It means, uh,” she says.  “Shit, I think it actually means a baby garula?  But people use it to mean a young human.”

 

Oh.  N H-01987 0006-0204 considers this.

 

“Why do you call me kid?” he asks.

 

Aranea frowns at him.  Seems to be thinking.

 

“You are a kid,” she says.  “I mean- we’re not human, I know.  But we’re _people._ And that makes you a kid.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.

 

“I do not match the definition,” he says.  “I’m not human or-” he considers. He’s pretty sure he’s not a _garula,_ but he doesn’t have a solid definition.  He thinks it’s a kind of animal.

 

“I’m not a human or an animal,” he decides.

 

Aranea sighs.  “Yeah. I know, kid.  But like…”

 

She trails off, considers.  She looks up at the dark night sky, dotted with stars.  They are bright and plentiful here, and in particular a thick band of them split the sky, so N H-01987 0006-0204 feels like they are standing under a protective arc, looking up across the vast emptiness with a great silver river crossing it.

 

“... Words are complicated,” she says after a minute.  “And nearly all the words that apply to humans apply to us too.  Because we’re people. Humans use kid to mean a young human, but it can be used to mean a young person.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 considers this.  It… kind of makes sense. But he feels strange, tilting his head one way, then the other as he considers it.

 

It makes him feel ill and nervous.  Scared. If he used a human word for himself at the facility, he would be corrected extensively.

 

“Why do you call me kid?” he asks again, uneasy.  It feels like prodding a bruise.

 

Aranea frowns at him.  It is dark and hard to see her without activating his night vision, and he wants to save his energy, so he peers at her through the blue-black darkness, trying to make out the details of her.  He can see her mouth and eyes, but the furrows and wrinkles, the way skin pulled around the face, the way he watched the guards so he’d know how they would act- these are invisible in the dark.

 

But she doesn’t seem- angry with him.  Just thinking hard, trying to find a way to explain this to him.

 

Then she looks at the sky again.

 

“When I first went outside, the guy who got me out- my boss,” she says.  “He used to call me kid.”

 

They’re silent for a while.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is trying to understand how this new information is relevant.  Knows it must be, because Aranea’s tone is strange- sort of strained. The information must be relevant, because it caused Aranea pain to say, and Aranea would not say it without purpose.

 

He can’t figure it out.  He looks at Aranea, trying to puzzle it out.  It is too dark to see her very well, but the faint starlight lines her edges with silver.

 

It is important, somehow.  He doesn’t know how.

 

After a minute, Aranea says, “How about I call you robo-boy instead?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitates.  “Does it mean human?”

 

 _“Ha,_ no,” Aranea says.

 

That is better.  Not a human word.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s stomach unclenches, relaxes as he considers it.  He says, “That is acceptable.”

 

“Fucking excellent, robo-boy,” Aranea says, and leans over.  Her knuckles touch his forehead.

 

It’s strange, and he startles.  But Aranea acts like nothing unusual happened, and she leans back.  Looks up at the sky again.

 

He stays still.  Tries to categorize the- the strange warmth spreading from where Aranea touched his forehead.  Feels hyperaware of her next to him, looking at the stars.

 

It feels- strange.  New. He doesn’t understand it.

 

He wants to.

 

\---

 

He wakes up in the cot.  Stares at the ceiling.

 

He remembers Aranea saying, _I got a radio call.  A man I work with sends them out for blind pick-up, so he won’t know if I miss them._ He remembers her saying, _You’d like my boss.  He’s a grouchy bastard._

 

Remembers traveling for all that time and never asking why.

 

Feels like an idiot.

 

\---

 

Cor doesn’t appear the next day.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 spends the morning pacing in the room with the cot, his stomach thrumming, feeling strange and nervous and too electric to sit still.  He does work on the dress, but it is so hard to focus that he can’t manage more than ten minutes at a time, and he keeps making small cuts in his fingers.

 

He can’t read the book, either.  He reads for three sentences before realizing that he hasn’t processed any of it, and he has to start over again.

 

Time seems to pass impossibly slowly.  The sunlight crawls across the floor, itchy when it touches his skin.  His stomach hurts. His hands shake. Maybe Cor doesn’t believe him. Maybe Cor is a lower rank than Ardyn, and will report to him.  Maybe Cor wants to kill Aranea. Maybe-

 

He’s shaking.  He sits in his room for a long time, trying not to be so afraid, while fear gapes like a yawning void in his mind, like he’s just barely balanced on the edge of functional.  Like at any moment he will go tumbling down.

 

\---

 

As the sunlight stretches into evening, N H-01987 0006-0204 forces himself to go to Iggy’s rooms.

 

Cor said he would find him.  Cor will find him, even if he leaves his room.  Cor said to stay in the Citadel, and Iggy’s rooms are in the Citadel.  It’s fine. It’s fine.

 

He heads to Iggy’s rooms, malfunctioning too much to use a slow walking pace, twitching and moving fast.

 

As he comes down the hallway to the rooms, he hears Noct’s voice.  His chest feels a little lighter, stomach a little better. Noct is good.  Noct will help.

 

“... doesn’t have time for me,” he’s saying.  

 

He sounds strange.  Bitter. N H-01987 0006-0204 slows down, confused.

 

“Noct,” Iggy says, pained.

 

“I get it,” Noct says.  “He’s the king, he has duties, blah blah blah.  It’s just- he got called away five minutes into dinner, and it’s just, if he’s so insistent on having them once a month you’d think he’d actually make time for them!”

 

“Noctis.”

 

“I know!  I know he’s the king, I know it was an emergency, probably.  It’s just- I see _Uncle_ more often, okay?  And he’s always traveling!”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stops.

 

Noct calls Ardyn that.  Uncle.

 

He can’t be talking about- Ardyn.  He can’t be. He can’t know him.

 

But he does, he called Ardyn Uncle, he let him into his room and take N H-01987 0006-0204 away.  Iggy said that Noct missed him, that time in the hallway. Noct- he looked happy to see him. Happy to see Ardyn.

 

Noct is happy to see Ardyn.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is frozen outside Iggy’s door.  He’s shaking. He feels on the verge of vomiting. Stupidly, he feels betrayed.

 

Noct doesn’t know about Ardyn and Aranea.  It’s not- Noct’s fault. He just wouldn’t know, because no one knew, no one but he and Aranea and Ardyn and maybe Cor, and Aranea was gone.

 

He stands outside the door for a long time, not really seeing or hearing.

 

Noct doesn’t know.  It wasn’t- it wasn’t Noct’s fault.  He shouldn’t feel sick to think of Noct, shouldn’t feel a horrible fire building in his stomach.

 

Eventually he leaves.

 

\---

 

He’s passing by the gardens on his way back to his rooms when Gladio and Iris come the other way.

 

“Hey, Blondie,” Gladio says.  Iris is tucked firmly under his arm, squirming and jabbing her fingers into Gladio’s ribs to no visible effect.

 

“You!” she shrieks when she sees him.  “Help me! Kick his ass!”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels sick and jittery and filled with too much energy, unsure if he’s supposed- to help Iris, or if she’s in danger.  He stumbles and comes at a half-charge down the hallway.

 

Gladio catches him easily and keeps him at bay with a hand to his chest.  He puts Iris down though, so N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks he has helped in some way.

 

“Trickery!” Iris screeches, and kicks at Gladio’s side.  It seems to have the same effect as kicking on a brick wall, but after a moment or two she subsides.  “You could’ve put me down three hallways ago,” she complains.

 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Gladio replies.  “C’mon, Blondie, I wanna show you something.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him.  He still feels sick and strange, but Gladio must not see anything too strange, because he’s already leaving, heading out toward the gardens.

 

“Wait up!” Iris says shrilly, chasing after him.  N H-01987 0006-0204 follows, uncertain.

 

They end up sitting on the ground under a tree, the leaves and branches casting dappled shade.  Iris plops herself down with an exaggerated sigh, and Gladio reaches one enormous hand into his gym bag, rustling around.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitates.  Sits carefully by Iris.

 

“Oh yeah,” Iris says.  “What’d the Marshal want yesterday, anyway?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t sure what _the Marshal_ is, but it turns out not to matter, because Gladio pulls a very thick book out of his bag.

 

“He probably just wanted to check out the prince’s new friend,” he says.  “Here, Blondie.”

 

He passes the book to N H-01987 0006-0204.  He takes it, uncertain. It is very heavy, and he has to compensate for the unexpected weight.

 

“That’s the family name book,” Iris says, narrowing her eyes at it.  Then she grins, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Wait, wait, you had it in your gym bag?”

 

“No,” Gladio says immediately.

 

“Dad’s gonna _kill_ you.”

 

“Dad’s not gonna find out unless someone snitches.”

 

Iris sulks, but then she brightens, leaning closer to N H-01987 0006-0204 so she can look at the heavy book in his lap.

 

“It’s a book of names,” she tells him.  “It’s not actually all flowers, Dad just has a weird obsession with plants.  Gladdy and I were thinking-”

 

“I was thinking,” Gladio says.  “You were being a gremlin.”

 

“Bite me,” Iris says.  “Gladdy and I were thinking that you could look through it and see if there’s any you like.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  A name he likes? For what?

 

Gladio and Iris watch him for a minute.  Iris’s face starts to furrow and fall. N H-01987 0006-0204’s stomach sinks, guilty.

 

Gladio reaches across Iris and turns the pages.  He is gentle and calm.

 

“See, I was thinking this might be good,” he says, pointing down to a word on the page.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks, looks.

 

_Celeri [che lu ree] (adj.) - to move at speed, swift._

 

“We’re not calling him that,” Iris says.  “It looks like celery.”

 

“Got anything better?”

 

Iris scowls at Gladio.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks down at the words.

 

They… want him to pick a name.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels sick.  He doesn’t- he’s shaky and ill and picking a name is- a lot.  It’s a lot.

 

Iris reaches over and flips through several pages.  Hundreds of words flash past. N H-01987 0006-0204 feels dizzy.  Are they names? Are they all names?

 

He breathes.  Forces each muscle to unlock.  It’s fine. Iris and Gladio will do whatever they want to do, and eventually they’ll be done and N H-01987 0006-0204 can- leave.  Go back to his room, lie down on the cot. Wait for Cor.

 

“What’s the word for freckles?” Iris asks, flipping through the book.  She scans down the page, then frowns. _“Lentigines._  Ew.  Why do all the cool things sound like vegetables?”

 

“Don’t name him after his face,” Gladio says.  “Name him after his personality.”

 

“I’m not naming him some cobwebby old word for quiet when I can name him something awesome,” Iris says.  “Like- pirates.”

 

Gladio gently whacks Iris upside the head.  “You’re not naming him anything. He’s picking a name.”

 

Iris scowls at him, then turns to N H-01987 0006-0204.  “Do you want to be named quiet?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitates.  He- doesn’t want to choose a name.  He doesn’t want- he feels very strange and overwhelmed.

 

He realizes he’s frowning when Iris triumphantly says “Ha!” and starts flipping through the book pages.  Gladio rolls his eyes.

 

“Pirata,” Iris says mournfully.  “That’s dumb. Maybe there’s a better word for treasure.”

 

“Treasure,” Gladio repeats.

 

“Yeah,” Iris says defensively.  “Cause, uh. His hair is gold.”

 

“Talk about reaching.”

 

“Shut up, Gladdy,” Iris says, ruffling through pages.  “Uh, here. What do you think?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 looks at the page.  There are- so many words. He feels strange and overwhelmed and sick.

 

Iris is pointing down at: _Praedam [pr I dum] (noun): stolen goods, loot._

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Feels ill. He is- kind of stolen goods.  Aranea stole him out of the facility. But he isn’t- goods.  He isn’t an object.

 

He blinks, eyes unfocusing, trailing down the page, not really seeing anything.

 

“You can’t name him treasure,” Gladio is saying.  He sounds muted. “That’s a Gralean name.”

 

“Oh shit, right,” Iris says.  “Well, he’s- oh. Fuck. Do you think we should use a- y’know.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 eyes flicker over a word that looks familiar.  He stops, looks at it again.

 

_Prompto [prompt oh] {adj.): ready, the ready man, quick_

 

He blinks.  Stares at it.

 

It… looks like prompt.  Looks like pronto. The words that mean quick, the word Iggy called him.  The word the cheerful blonde character on Noct’s phone used.

 

It looks like… a good word.

 

MT’s don’t have names.

 

He looks down at the book for a long time, while Iris and Gladio squabble next to him.  Sits there, feeling like he’s being torn in half. He’s an MT, and MT’s don’t have names.  Aranea has a name and she wants him to have a name. But he can’t. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

 

He sits there while Gladio and Iris chatter, feels removed.  The word _Prompto_ sits on his tongue, as he carefully forms the name in his throat, not daring to breathe or open his mouth.

 

He doesn’t point to the name.

 

\---

 

The next day he wakes up to someone knocking on the door, three short, sharp raps.

 

He gets up quickly, hopeful and nervous.  It has to be Cor. It has to be. Stuffs the book deep under the dresser, hurries to open the door.

 

Cor is there, broad and grizzled, with the hard eyes.

 

“Alright, kid,” he says.  “Let’s take a walk.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did u guys know that prompto doesn't actually mean quick??? latin's a fucked up language


	12. Chapter 12

They go for a walk.

 

It is 0634 hours.  The halls are very empty, and the sun hasn’t risen.  The world outside the windows is dark and grey, the air soft and muted, and some part of N H-01987 0006-0204 is momentarily convinced that he is back in the lake with Aranea, his ears underwater and the sky overhead, the world quiet and empty and vast.  But he is here, with Cor, in the tall, cool hallways with the cold marble floors, and his heartbeat is fast and his skin feels alive.

 

Cor’s back is straight and his shoulders square.  He is half a head taller than N H-01987 0006-0204 and much broader, but he doesn’t… _ loom, _ like Gladio does.  He appears hard and immovable, like he just  _ is, _ and the rest of the world must make room for him.

 

Cor’s footsteps make less noise than N H-01987 0006-0204 expects, less than Gladio and even Noct’s.  Soft for a human.

 

They do not pass any people.

 

The room they go to is plain and empty, with a table and several storage units that N H-01987 0006-0204 tentatively thinks are called  _ cabinets. _  There are two chairs.  There are no windows.

 

Cor locks the door behind them.  It is a heavy lock, and N H-01987 0006-0204 hears it work further into the wall, mechanics grinding behind the stone and metal.

 

Cor remains stony even with the door locked.  He opens some of the cabinets and removes different papers, while N H-01987 0006-0204 hovers by the table, awkward and nervous.

 

Cor puts the papers down on the table.  Turns his hard stare on N H-01987 0006-0204.

 

“I’m going to touch your head,” he says.  “Don’t try anything.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 barely has time to process this before Cor reaches out.  It is quick and sure, and Cor’s hand passes his ear and feels behind-

 

Touches his port-

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks, heartbeat suddenly faster, stomach sick- Cor can’t know, he can’t, he can’t, no one was supposed to know.  Did he?

 

Cor’s already pulling away, grunting.  He glances over N H-01987 0006-0204’s face.

 

“Calm down, kid,” he says. “I don’t give a damn, I just needed to check.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  Doesn’t understand. Cor- knows?  Cor knows and doesn’t care?

 

He can’t know and not care.  Humans hate MTs. That is how it  _ works. _

 

But Cor is indicating one of the chairs, moving around the table to the other one.  “Sit down,” he commands, and N H-01987 0006-0204 has to obey, so he lowers himself, shaking, into the chair.

 

“I’m going to ask you what happened,” Cor tells him.  “And you’re going to sign whether I’m right or wrong. Clear?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels like he’s a little behind the conversation, like he’s still catching up, but it is clear: Cor will ask him what happened.  N H-01987 0006-0204 will sign to answer. Cor may or may not know that he is- what he is. He shakily signs,  _ affirmative. _

 

“Okay.  Did Aranea take you from a facility?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s breath catches in his throat.

 

He knows.  He _ knows.  _  There’s no way he can’t know, because MT’s come from facilities, and they _ only _ come from facilities, and humans come and go out of them and MT’s only leave.  Cor knows.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest is too tight.  His breath is too fast.

 

“Calm down,” Cor says.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is shaking.  There is electricity beneath his skin.  He tries to regulate his breathing, regulate his heartbeat- he can be calm, he can be good, but it’s so hard, his breath catching and freezing, and Cor knows he’s an MT.

 

“Kid,” Cor growls.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is breathing too fast.  His eyesight shudders away from Cor, watery and strange.

 

“You’re okay kid,” Cor is saying.  “Calm down.”

 

He’s not okay.  He’s not, he’s not, he’s not.  He’s shaking and his breath is strange, but he has to talk to Cor, and has to keep Cor pleased with him.  Cor knows. Cor _ knows. _

 

Cor sighs.  Is silent for a moment.  Then his voice is softer, the edges taken off of it.

 

“Look,” he says.  “As far as I’m concerned, you’re people, okay?  Aranea calls it not being human, and I don’t- that sounds fucking stupid to me.  You’re a human with tubes stuffed into you. But either way you’re a person, okay?  I don’t care what they told you. You’re a person.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand.  His breath is choked and strange. He stares at Cor.

 

“You’re a  _ person,” _ Cor stresses.

 

_ We’re people,  _ Aranea’s voice echoes out of memory.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s breath hitches.  And then it lets go, and his eyes and nose leak.  He is- a person. Yes. Cor knows, but he thinks he is human, but he- he still knows and he thinks N H-01987 0006-0204 is a person.  He’s a person. Yes.

 

Cor watches him for a moment.  He still looks stoney, but also tired.

 

“Okay, kid,” he says.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at him, tries to straighten.  His eyes feel sore and strange, and the water leaks out of his eyes and down his face.  He is listening. “Did Aranea take you from the facility?”

 

Yes, she did.  She did, and Cor knows, and Cor thinks- Cor thinks he’s a person.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 signs  _ affirmative, _ the gesture blurry in his vision.

 

Cor doesn’t smile, or soften.  He seems so solid in N H-01987 0006-0204’s vision, rock-hard and present, like- like Aranea was.

 

“Alright,” Cor says.  Begins to ask in earnest.

 

\---

 

Cor asks a lot of questions.   _ What day were you taken from the facility?  Did Aranea damage the facility? Was it operational when you left?  Were you tracked? Did Aranea try to take anyone else? Did you travel on foot?  Did Aranea transfer data to you? _

 

They are almost all questions that can be answered be  _ affirmative  _ or _ negative.  _  Sometimes Cor repeats questions, or asks something very similar.  Some questions N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know the answer to, but when he hesitates and looks at Cor, helpless, Cor only waits a few seconds before asking a different question.

 

Cor asks about the journey back.  Asks what time of day they traveled and for how long.  Asks if he vomited black blood, if he has grown used to the sun, if anyone else knows what he is.

 

They get to Aranea.  That’s harder.

 

“The last you saw Aranea was June fifteenth,” Cor says.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know  _ June, _ but Cor follows up with: “That over was three months ago.  Have you seen her since?”

 

Oh.  Cor is asking if he has seen Aranea since- the day.  That day. He signs  _ negative. _

 

“When you were separated,” Cor says, “Was she injured?”

 

No- wait, yes.  When she turned into a daemon the sun started to hurt her.  She was- she had been bleeding black blood and smoke.

 

_ Affirmative. _

 

“Did her injury prevent her from following you?”

 

No, being daemon prevented her from following him.   _ Negative. _

 

“Was she captured?”

 

_ Negative. _

 

“... Blackmailed?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know blackmail.  He looks at Cor helplessly while Cor’s mouth pulls down in one corner.

 

“Did someone threaten her or you,” he says.  “Or tell her something in order to get her to do something.”

 

Oh- no.  Ardyn hadn’t told her to do something, hadn’t threatened her, just smiled at her while she spilled feathers and smoke and black blood onto the dirt.  Ardyn hadn’t threatened him either, just made the deal- the dress, for Aranea.

 

He starts to sign  _ negative _ , and then stops, hand hovering uncertainly.  Ardyn hadn’t told Aranea anything in order to get her to do something, but he had… made the deal.  Told N H-01987 0006-0204 to make a dress in order to return Aranea to normal.

 

But that wasn’t a threat.  It was- a deal. A trade. It didn’t count.

 

Cor is frowning at him.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is still unsure, but he thinks it didn’t count.  He signs  _ negative _ .

 

Cor’s eyes are sharp and steady.  He watches N H-01987 0006-0204’s hands for a moment longer.

 

“Alright,” he says.  “You don’t speak. Is it a medical issue?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks at the subject change.  No, it is not a medical or physical issue.  _ Negative _ .

 

“Psychological?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know  _ psychological _ .  He hesitates, but only a moment later Cor is speaking again.

 

“Does it feel difficult to talk?  Like you can’t get words out.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  It… doesn’t feel that way. Everything he’s wanted to say has remained trapped in his throat by force of will, and but words have  _ wanted  _ to come out, especially early in the year.  Now, about a third in, his silence is almost comfortable.

 

It’s frustrating, because he can’t- communicate well with Noct, or Iggy and Gladio and Iris.  The only person he can communicate with, as completely as if he could speak, is Ardyn. But the silence itself has worn itself down into his chest, settling into his bones.  It is starting to feel as natural as a second skin.

 

He swallows, moves his throat experimentally.  Tries to feel where the muscles remain still around unmade sounds.

 

_ Would  _ it be hard to speak?  If he could?

 

Cor must take his silence to mean something else, because when he he speaks next, his voice is a little tight and displeased.

 

“I meant, is it a malfunction.”  His tone is strange on the last word.

 

Oh.  It’s not that either.  He signs  _ negative _ .

 

Cor is really frowning now.  “...  _ Can  _ you speak?”

 

_ Negative _ .

 

“Why?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitates, unsure how to convey  _ the deal, to help Aranea, because Ardyn said he’d turn her back if I didn’t talk, because Ardyn knows when I speak, he knows, he knows. _

 

He ends up jabbing his finger at the bracelet again, the silvery half-skull and feathers.   _ Ardyn _ .

 

Cor is silent for a while, looking at the bracelet.  N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t tell what he’s thinking. His heartbeat feels loud in his ears.  His stomach hurts.

 

“Does he make you record what you hear?”  Cor asks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204- doesn’t know what that means.  And then he does. He doesn’t record what he hears, because that would take up too much memory.  Ardyn doesn’t make him record what he hears. Ardyn just  _ knows _ .

 

_ Negative _ , he signs, while Cor frowns.

 

“Does he make you tell him when you speak?”

 

What?  No. Ardyn just- knows.  He  _ knows _ .  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s stomach hurts.   _ Negative,  _ he signs, pushing the sign forward.  Ardyn just- just knows. He just knows.

 

Cor asks something else.  N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes that his ears are ringing, faintly, and he hears the words but doesn’t understand them.

 

Ardyn just knows.  He just- knew. He knew when he cried in Hammerhead, however far away he was.  Distance meant nothing.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is still signing  _ negative _ , his fingers so tense they hurt.  Cor is frowning.

 

“... wearing a wire?” he asks.  His voice sounds strange, staticky and warped.

 

What? No, no, he is making a dress of wire for Aranea, but he hasn’t worn it.  He isn’t wearing wire of any kind. Do humans wear wire?

 

His head still moves back to Ardyn, to the odd oil-spill sheen of his hair.  He has to focus, but it’s so hard.

 

_ Negative _ , he signs.

 

“... How does he know when you talk?”

 

He just- knows.  He knows. That is all.

 

Cor’s face is impassive.  He doesn’t understand. How could he not understand?  What is so hard about it? It is easy data. It settles easily into place in his head, like knowledge that the sky is blue.  Hard. Factual. Water is wet. Birds fly. Ardyn knows.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes that he’s staring blankly at Cor.  His breathing is too fast. His chest feels tight. He is- something, something firey and strange in his ribs.

 

Ardyn just knows.  What didn’t Cor understand?

 

He tries to think of the right gestures. Points at the skull and feathers again, his hands shaking.

 

Cor’s eyes flit to the bracelet, then back to N H-01987 0006-0204’s face.  His gaze is hard, like he can see into N H-01987 0006-0204’s head and read his thoughts like Ardyn.  N H-01987 0006-0204 feels strange under his gaze, vulnerable, and he finds himself shrinking, shying away.

 

“Okay,” Cor says, a little softly.  He looks away briefly, rubs his eyes with one hand, very quickly.  And then he’s looking at N H-01987 0006-0204 again.

 

“Does he know about this conversation?”

 

He- hadn’t considered that.  For a moment his heart swoops in terror, but then he remembers: Ardyn shuffled through his memories and found the typing.  Which means he didn’t know about the typing before he looked.

 

So he wouldn’t know now.  Ardyn doesn’t know things unless he reads N H-01987 0006-0204’s mind, and he isn’t- he only seems to do that when they are alone together, when they are near each other.

 

He knew about the tiny sob, at Hammerhead, the slip of sound.  But that was- sound. A part of the deal. Ardyn would always be looking for that.  Would Ardyn look for this?

 

It was not specified.  Like how typing wasn’t.  And he wasn’t punished for typing, and Ardyn only specified that recently.

 

Which means: the deal can change.  But it only changes if Ardyn thinks it needs to.  As long as Ardyn doesn’t know-

 

As long as Ardyn doesn’t look.  As long as he doesn’t think he needs to.

 

And as long as Ardyn doesn’t think he needs to read N H-01987 0006-0204’s memories, he won’t know the things N H-01987 0006-0204 knows.  He won’t know about Cor.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stands, frozen.  He can- have Cor. If he is careful. He can have an ally, and as long as he can behave correctly, as though nothing has changed, perhaps- perhaps Ardyn would not know.

 

“Kid,” Cor says.

 

He hasn’t answered Cor’s question.  He fumbles, his chest tight with something strange and good- like excitement, like fear and hope together.  He signs,  _ negative _ .

 

Cor’s expression is still hard, but there is something underneath it that N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t decipher.

 

“Has he threatened you?”

 

What?  No. There was the deal, but that was a deal.  That was different.  _ Negative. _

 

Cor’s mouth is thin, and his eyes are hard, but the- the strangeness in his expression, that N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t recognize, is making him seem- something less cold.  Something more angry.

 

“... Has he hurt you?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s eyebrows draw together, bewildered.  Of course he did. That’s what Ardyn  _ does. _

 

He realizes he’s looking at Cor like Cor is- malfunctioning, or severely defective.  He signs  _ affirmative. _

 

Cor is quiet for a minute.  His expression is something N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t recognize, but looks familiar.  He’s seen that expression on Iggy, on Noct. Something like fury, but hidden, restrained from the surface.

 

“Fuck,” Cor says almost inaudibly, and then he rubs his eyes again, pinching his nose.  He stays like that, while N H-01987 0006-0204 fidgets, unsure.

 

Did Cor not know- about that?  How could he not know? Hurting is all Ardyn  _ does _ .

 

Did N H-01987 0006-0204 answer incorrectly?  Has he made a mistake? He rolls back through the conversation, searching for malfunctions, but there was only the brief hearing distortion, and Cor hadn’t seemed to care about that.

 

“Alright, kid,” Cor says.  His tone is different, still dry and strong, but- something else.  A little softer. “I’ll try to look after you, but I’m gonna need your help.  Can you do that?”

 

He- yes.  He can help.  He can be useful.  He hurriedly signs,  _ affirmative _ .

 

“Okay,” Cor says again.  He’s quiet for another minute, brows pinched.  “Okay. Fuck. Astrals.”

 

He fumbles around the table.  Looks briefly at the papers.

 

“Fuck this,” he mumbles, very quietly.  And then, louder, “Let’s get breakfast.”

 

\---

 

Cor’s pace is fast and even, a soldier’s march.   N H-01987 0006-0204 falls in step easily, and it is good, familiar.  Everyone at the facility walked like this. Aranea walked like this.

 

The hallways are still mostly empty, and Cor keeps his voice low.   N H-01987 0006-0204 has to sharpen his hearing to listen. 

 

It is difficult to concentrate,  N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest light and airy and breathing fast, skin prickling. Cor knows.  Cor  _ knows _ , and he wants N H-01987 0006-0204’s help, which means- which means- Cor wants him as an ally.

 

Cor is an ally.

 

“I’ve only done this once before, so I might fuck up sometimes,” Cor is saying.  “No,  _ don’t  _ sign.  Okay? Only sign when I say you can.”

 

Yes.  He will not sign.  Yes. He opens his hands to make the affirmative sign, stops himself.  Watches Cor as they move down the corridor, unsure how to indicate  _ yes _ .

 

“I’m sorry, kid,” Cor says.  “They’re Gralean military hand signals- fuck.  Do you know what nations are? Blink once for yes and twice for no.”

 

Oh- yes, he received basic instructions on nations.  There is the Empire, and there is Lucis. There are other places that used to be nations, like  _ Accordo _ and  _ Tenebrae, _ that now belong to the Empire.

 

He blinks once.

 

“Good- no, wait.  Do you know _ why _ you shouldn’t use Gralean hand signs?”

 

Cor called the hand signals  _ Gralean military hand signals,  _ so he means  _ signing. _  Yes.  N H-01987 0006-0204 should not sign because Cor instructed him not to.  He blinks once.

 

“Okay,” Cor says, and then stops talking as they enter the dining hall.

 

He doesn’t talk for a little bit, just picks up a plate and starts putting food on it.   N H-01987 0006-0204 trails after him, fidgeting, excited, until Cor glances aside at him and instructs him to get breakfast.  He’s not sure he can eat, but he hurriedly gets a plate and collects food. Fruit. Toast.

 

They sit tucked into a corner, angled a little oddly.  Cor picks a piece of fruit off his plate.

 

“The cameras can’t see here,” Cor says.   N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand this, but he doesn’t get time to process it, because then Cor is saying, “I’m going to tell you some things.  Pretend you’re just eating your food. Do you know what pretending is?”

 

Yes- yes.  He blinks once.

 

“Good,” Cor says.  He drops the fruit into a bowl of oatmeal, pokes at it with his spoon.   N H-01987 0006-0204 puts a piece of food in his mouth. He’s glad they’re just pretending.  He doesn’t think he can swallow.

 

“No one knows about Aranea,” Cor says.  “We got her out on a mission to get information on magitech facilities; we didn’t plan for her.  The rest of the team didn’t make it, so I’m- I  _ was  _ the only person who knew about her.

 

“I needed a spy on the magitech facilities, and people would have killed her if they knew about- the whole MT thing.  I thought-”

 

Cor stops, his brow pinched.  N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t tell what he’s thinking.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, finally.  “It was- a shitty thing to do to a kid. And I’m gonna do the same thing to you.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what Cor’s talking about.  He doesn’t know _ shitty, _ he doesn’t know  _ spy.  _  He doesn’t know what Cor did, what he’s going to do.

 

“She was supposed to come home in June,” he continues.  “This would be her fifteenish mission, and the longest- she said she would be fine- never mind.  She didn’t come home, but you did. And you acted the same as her, when I first got her.

 

“I watched you.  I wasn’t sure until you fought with the lance- no one else  _ knows  _ that, she developed it by herself.”

 

He’s quiet for a minute.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s head is reeling.  He understands- some of this. Aranea had duties for Cor.  He acted- similar to Aranea.

 

This is impossible.  Aranea is incredibly fast, intelligent, strong.  She is- good. So good. N H-01987 0006-0204 is nothing like her.

 

“I won’t always be able to keep you safe,” Cor says.  The subject change is sudden, and N H-01987 0006-0204 finds himself furrowing his eyebrows at Cor, confused.  “That man-” he flicks his finger at the bracelet, “holds a lot of sway in the council, and I need solid evidence to give to the King.  But I’ll help.

 

“He must  _ not know about this,” _ Cor says.  “He has to think everything is the same.  You can’t tell him about this- he can’t know _ that I know. _  Understand?”

 

Yes.  Yes. He must pretend everything is the same.  Ardyn must think he doesn’t need to look. Yes.  He blinks once.

 

“When he talks to you,” Cor says, “Wait until he’s done and gone away, and then come straight to me.  We’ll figure something out. Okay?”

 

Yes.  Okay. When Ardyn speaks to him, he is to wait until he is done, and then come straight to Cor.  Yes. His chest feels lighter.

 

He blinks once.

 

Cor sighs through his nose, a long, low sound.  He doesn’t look so hard anymore. Just- the quiet, restrained anger.  And very tired.

 

“Good,” he says shortly.  “Eat your breakfast, kid.”

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 and Cor stay and eat for a while.  N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t eat very much, his stomach twisting and moving in strange ways, his skin prickly with excitement.  Sometimes he’ll remember, all over again, that Cor is here- that Cor  _ knows- _ and he’ll sort of shiver, all over.

 

He feels- good.  He feels scared and hopeful and strange.  If Cor notices, he doesn’t say.

 

Eventually Cor says, “I gotta go, kid.”

 

Oh.  Cor has duties.  Yes. He blinks at Cor, who stands but hesitates by the table.  Doesn’t leave yet.

 

“Listen-” Cor says.  He doesn’t say anything for a minute.  N H-01987 0006-0204 wonders briefly what he’s supposed to be listening for, nervous that he’s not hearing what Cor wants him to hear.  Cor is drumming his fingers, looking at the table.

 

“Listen,” he says again.  “I’m gonna do my best by you, alright?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  He… doesn’t know what that means.  He stares at Cor, bewildered.

 

“Just-” Cor says.  “I’ll help you. Okay?”

 

Oh.  He knows  _ help you _ \- Aranea used to say that.  Aranea used to say that all the time.  He finds himself smiling, his chest strange, warm and hollow, something sad and happy all at once.  He’s smiling at Cor, a small smile.

 

Cor will help him.  Yes.

 

Cor leaves.

 

\---

 

Eventually N H-01987 0006-0204 leaves the dining hall.  Starts making his way to Iggy’s rooms.

 

He’s thinking about Cor.  He has help. He has an ally.  Cor is grizzled and tired and strange, but he has fought gods and he knows about Aranea and- and he knows about Ardyn.  And he believes him.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 is so distracted thinking about Cor, that he doesn’t see Noct coming from the other direction.

 

“Oh- hey!” Noct calls.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stomach drops.  He looks up, sees Noct. He suddenly feels- sick.  Very sick.

 

Noct is giving him a half-smile, coming towards him.  Like everything is fine. Like he didn’t let Ardyn in, like he didn’t smile at Ardyn like nothing was wrong.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 finds himself stumbling.  Noct is closer. He doesn’t- he-

 

He bolts.

 

\---

 

Noct calls after him, confused, and seems to be following N H-01987 0006-0204 for a while.  He sounds worried.

 

There’s- something strange.  N H-01987 0006-0204 presses into an alcove just before Noct turns down the hallway.  Then-

 

A horrible electric prickling in his blood, all the daemon in him revolting, itchy and painful enough to make his eyes water.

 

From his hiding place, he sees: a flash of light, something strange and fractured, crystalline.  It looks, startlingly, like when Ardyn summoned things out of red sparks. But this is blue, and- and it  _ feels _ different.

 

Noct appears out of the blue crystal light.  His expression is twisted in confusion and fear.  For a stupified moment, N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks Noct has somehow summoned himself.

 

Noct doesn’t see him.  Lands running, moving down the hallway, away from N H-01987 0006-0204.

 

He waits for a while.  Noct does not return.

 

The pain fades to a strange itch.  The daemon blood in him feels restless, startled and angry, like an animal prodded with a stick.  His upper lip feels burning and damp.

 

He wipes his nose.  His hand comes away dark with black blood.  He stares at it.

 

After a while, he goes to his room.

 

\---

 

He feels strange.  The elation from knowing about Cor is still- sort of there, a highlight beneath his skin.  But it feels distant. Strange.

 

It’s not Noct’s fault.  He doesn’t know. But-

 

But-

 

He thinks about Ardyn’s face, smiling down at Noct with gentle fondness.  He thinks about tea, and scissors. He thinks about Noct’s face, contorted with worry, when he turned and ran.

 

He sits in the cot for a while.

 

\---

 

After a while, he hears something scratch at the door.

 

He still feels- strange.  Distant. The not-quite-here feeling, the floating feeling.  He blinks at the door.

 

The scratching noise continues.  After a minute he gets up and opens the door, clumsy.

 

It’s the small, white animal, from before.  The one with the nail in its paw, the one that led him to the book about gods.

 

It pants at him.  Trots past him into the room.

 

He blinks at it.  Closes the door, absentmindedly.  The animal is sniffing at the barbed wire in the corner, and then sniffing the carpeted ground.  After a minute it comes up to him and sits at his feet, looking up at him expectantly.

 

He blinks at it.  He is very confused.

 

It licks its mouth, tongue swiping over its nose.  It is- amusing. A sort of buubly feeling is coming up in N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest.

 

He crouches down, still strange and distant, but- less so.  More solid. The animal leans forward and nudges him with its nose, shoving insistantly at his hands.

 

He touches its head, gentle, like how Paw-Paw used to do.  It lets him, and then snorts and shakes free. Rears up on its hind legs, paws on his knee.  Shoves its chest into his hand.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  There’s something tied there.  A green cloth, and something else under that.  A pouch.

 

He blinks.  Doesn’t understand.

 

The white animal pants as he considers.  Remembers: the other animal, in Noct’s room.  Umbra. It had a pouch around its neck. It was there to deliver something.

 

He blinks.  Reaches, with careful hands, into the pouch.

 

Inside is a piece of paper.  He pulls it out. Unfolds it.

 

It reads:

 

_ Dear friend, _

 

_ I must thank you for taking care of my dear Pryna.  She is a lovely dog, but perhaps not the wisest, and often gets in trouble- to my endless frustration and amusement.   _

 

_ Thank you for your kindness in treating her paw.  I know many would ignore a wounded creature, and it is a gentle and generous person that helps others in their time of need.  You have been kind and generous, and it is gladdening to me that Pryna should find her way into such good hands. _

 

_ It is not without some shame that I write to you, for the last thing I should be doing is burdening you with another favor.  However, I have a friend in somewhat desperate need of some kindness, and perhaps you may be able to shed light in his life where I, by distance and circumstance, cannot. _

 

_ My dear childhood friend, Noctis, is a lonely young man.  He has a father who loves him, of course, and two close friends, but they are tied to him by duty and it is difficult for them to truly approach him as friends and equals.  You are, however, unburdened by such, and may approach him as he is, with no obligations. _

 

_ It is selfish of me to ask, but please, if you can- befriend him.  Help him. He is Prince Noctis of Lucis, but please do not let the title deter you.  He will not hurt you. _

 

_ If there is anything I can do to repay you, you have but to ask. _

 

_ Also if it is not too much trouble, please write back.  I love Noct dearly, but I fear I may be in need of a writing companion who does not only tell me about video games.  You can give the letter to Pryna, and she will give it to me. _

 

_ Sincerely, _

_ Luna _


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: dissociation, panic attack, mild blood

N H-01987 0006-0204 rereads the letter several times, his chest tight and strange.

 

His first conclusion is that it is not meant to be delivered to him.  There is so much in it that he just- does not understand, the words difficult and put together in unfamiliar ways. He knows the individual words, like _approach_ , but in the sentence _approach him as he is-_ this makes no sense.

 

He reads and rereads _Noctis_ , mouthing the word without daring to breathe, before he realizes that’s how Noct’s name is written down.   _Noct_.  Then the words make him feel faintly ill, his eyes burning.  He skips his name, eyes flitting over it to the next word.

 

It can’t be for him.  But- he knows Noct’s name.

 

And the writer says a _wounded creature_ , and she must mean the soft white creature that pants with one paw on his knee.  And she’s- thanking him, for taking care of the wounded creature.

 

So- so- the white creature is called- a _dog_ .  And this dog in particular is female- he traces the words _She is a lovely dog-_ and her name is _Pryna_.

 

He looks at her.  Pryna is soft and panting, watching him with friendly eyes.  His chest feels tight and his eyes are wet, but looking at- at Pryna helps, somehow.

 

He touches her head.  She nuzzles his hand.

 

He reads and rereads the line, _You have been kind and generous._ This does not apply to him.  He is not kind, or generous, or good.  He is an M. T. It cannot apply to him, it can’t.  Cindy was kind, Paw-Paw was kind. Aranea was kind and generous and- amazing, the most amazing person he knows; he is nothing like her.

 

His chest feels tight and horrible.  His breathing is strange. He cannot stop himself from running his thumb over the word _kind_.

 

He wants it to be true, but it’s- not.  It’s not.

 

He reads _please write back_.  

 

His eyes are damp and leaking.  Pryna makes a soft noise, leans in and starts licking his face, her tongue sandpaper-tough and slimy.

 

He is not kind.  He cannot write back.

 

\---

 

Eventually he starts working on the dress.  His eyesight is blurry and damp and his fingers are numb, and he feels like he’s processing everything two seconds behind, nerves distant and slow.

 

His thoughts move through mud.  For a long time he does not think of anything except the making of the dress, moving the wire in and out, ruddy-brown and bloody between his fingers.

 

The dress has taken shape.  It has a waist, a collar, a hem, connected by wire, with an opening in the back.  He has laid wire horizontally and vertically, weaving them together, until they look very much like a graph made of metal squares.  It looks a little like the wire dress form now, but larger and looser; he still has to weave more wire in until it appears solid, like cloth.

 

Weaving more wire in, now that he has the base made, does not require any thinking.  It feels- strange, almost pleasant, to strain and pull the wire into place.

 

It is hard, tedious work.  But it does not require- thinking, or much in the way of risk.  It is good. Yes.

 

The dress beneath his fingers is barbed and unforgiving.  His fingers are worn and smeared with rust.

 

It is good.

 

\---

 

At some point Pryna sticks her nose in the middle of his work and starts licking his fingers.

 

He stops, terrified to hurt her, and examines her muzzle as much as he can, but she appears unhurt and is busy licking his hand, cleaning away rust and blood and working her way up his arm.

 

She nudges him, gentle, and then more insistent, until he drops the wire.  Then she worms her way into his lap and licks his face, gentle, cleaning the old, dried up tear tracks away.

 

It is kind, and good.  He blinks. Sniffles.

 

She licks under his nose, unfazed by the snot there.  It is- strange. So strange. It feels like Cindy hugging him, like Paw-Paw ruffling his hair, the strange clarity and warmth in his chest.

 

He cries.  It is silent, his breath hitching but making no sound, as Pryna licks his face.

 

\---

 

At some point, after Pryna has stopped cleaning his face and instead flopped on her side, he gets up.  

 

He should work on the dress.  It is thorny and strange and still needs a lot of work.  But he feels more aware, more awake, more like his body belongs to him, Pryna soft and warm by his leg.  There are other things he should do.

 

He should also see Cor, in case Cor needs his help.  He must keep Cor pleased with him.

 

He should bring the book.  Yes. Then he can point at it and Cor will- maybe Cor will tell him about gods.

 

He reaches under the dresser.  Pulls out the book called _Cosmogony_.

 

Goes to find Cor.

 

\---

 

He checks the room Cor had taken him to the first time.  Then the room from last time. Then sparring buildings, then the dining hall, then the sparring building again, because it is large and confusing.

 

Cor is in the sparring building.  So are humans that walk and act like guards, performing exercises.

 

He hesitates by the door.

 

The guard-like humans are in pairs, and appear to be practicing striking forms.  One will strike thirty times, stop, while the other defends. Then switch.

 

The guard that said _Niff_ is there.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 does not move.  Watches, his stomach strange and churning.

 

The guard is taking a turn striking his defending partner.  His hits are powerful, loud enough to be faintly audible despite the heavy breathing and cursing, the thick _thock_ of flesh-on-flesh.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 backs away.

 

His breathing is strange.  He remembers the guard at the facility, with yellow hair, his sneering face.

 

He hurries back into the hallway.  Stays there for a minute, breathing strange.

 

The door opens.  N H-01987 0006-0204 jerks, defensive, but it’s Cor, stepping into the hallway with him.  N H-01987 0006-0204 stares at him, disbelieving.

 

“Don’t sign,” he says, softly  “Is something wrong? Blink once for yes and twice for no.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks, instinctive, and hurries to blink a second time, because nothing is wrong- at least, nothing new is wrong.

 

Cor is searching his face, frowning, and then scans the rest of him.  He is- here, in the hallway, even though he was doing other things. He is here like N H-01987 0006-0204 takes precedent.

 

“Okay,” he says.  “Did he talk to you?”

 

Who? Oh- Ardyn.  He blinks twice.

 

Cor is still frowning, a tiny furrow between his eyebrows.  N H-01987 0006-0204 is still processing that Cor is here, that he stepped out to talk.

 

“Were you looking for me?”

 

Yes.  He blinks once.

 

“Do you need something now or can it wait?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t need something now.  He needs to talk to Cor about gods eventually, but not necessarily now.

 

He blinks- once, then twice, three times, unsure how to answer.  His hands fidget, not allowed to gesture.

 

“Fuck, I mean-” Cor pinches his nose briefly.  He looks frustrated. Angry. N H-01987 0006-0204’s stomach sinks.  “Blink once if you need something now, twice for later.”

 

Oh.  He blinks twice.

 

“Great,” Cor says, quietly.  “Okay. Come to my office- do you know where my office is?”

 

No.  Two blinks.

 

“Right, okay.  It was the first room I took you to, when you were sparring with Amicitia.  Do you remember where that is?”

 

At first he doesn’t.  He doesn’t know _Amicitia_.  But he then he knows; Cor’s talking about the first room he took him to, the one with the locking door and katana sheath.

 

He blinks once.

 

“Good.  I’ll meet you there at-” he glances out the window, a brief purposed look that N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand, “Gods, I swear the sun is setting early.  Twenty hundred hours. Good?”

 

Yes.  That is- good.  Very good. He blinks once, struggles not to blink again, excited.  He can’t help bouncing on his toes a little.

 

“Okay.”  Cor says.  His face looks- a little softer.  He’s looking at N H-01987 0006-0204, his mouth upturned the smallest amount in one corner.

 

Then his face is somber again, hard.  “I’m sorry, kid. I just- I got work.”

 

Yes.  Cor has work.  That makes sense.  He blinks once.

 

“... Right,” Cor says.  He hesitates a few more seconds, then says, “I’ll see you there, kid.  Don’t get in trouble.”

 

Yes.  He won’t.  He blinks once again, but Cor is already heading back into the room, the softness falling away from him until he is sharp and hard again.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 flounders, waiting, but Cor is gone.  Yes. Cor will meet him at the first room- his office- at twenty hundred hours.

 

His internal clock reads 18:23 hours.

 

He should go back and work on the dress.  He should not go wait outside Cor’s office for an hour and thirty-seven minutes.

 

He goes to Cor’s office.

 

\---

 

Outside Cor’s office, he tucks himself into an alcove.  There is a ledge that seems to serve no purpose but is sturdy enough to hold his weight, so he sits there.

 

An hour is not very long.  He waited much longer in the temple, at the gods’ feet.

 

He waits.

 

\---

 

When Cor comes down the hallway, an hour later, he looks tired and irritated, the skin around his eyes darker and sunken, lines pulling at the corner of his mouth.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 still feels good to see him, his chest lighter and energy back under his skin.  He perks up as Cor walks towards him.

 

Cor gives him a short glance as he hops off the ledge, expression not changing much, and does something with a flat card.  N H-01987 0006-0204 can hear the door unlock, the dull click muffled by metal and stone.

 

“You didn’t wait here the entire time, right?” Cor says.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks once for _no,_ he didn’t _didn’t_ wait here the entire time- but Cor is already entering the office and doesn’t see.  He beckons N H-01987 0006-0204 after him. “C’mon.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 follows, eager, clutching the book to his chest.

 

Cor locks the door behind them again.  The room- the office is much the same as last time, a desk, a coat rack with the katana sheath hung over it, the drawers, the paperwork.  There is not much else.

 

“Ok kid,” Cor says.  “You can sign. What happened?”

 

Nothing’s happened.  Nothing new. N H-01987 0006-0204 is excited, should explain nothing new has happened, but instead he thrusts the book forward.

 

Cor squints.  Takes it, glancing at N H-01987 0006-0204 with furrowed eyebrows, looks back down at it.

 

“Look, I’m not-” he starts.  Stops. Starts again, “I’m not the best person to go to with theology questions.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 waves his arms, interrupting... whatever Cor is talking about.  Points at Cor. Points at the book.

 

Cor is still frowning.

 

“You want me to… read you the book?”

 

 _Negative_.  N H-01987 0006-0204 has already part of the book and believes himself to be capable of finishing it, if not understanding it.  He needs to ask Cor about- about the god he fought.

 

He realizes he’s frowning.  Tries to smooth his face back into a neutral state.

 

He tries- point at Cor.  Signing, _engage,_ the signal to start fighting an enemy.  Points at the book.

 

Cor’s expression twists up like he’s tasted something poisonous.  “You want me to fight a -oh,” he realizes, his expression dropping from disgust into- something else.  Exasperation. “You’re talking about Gilgamesh.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Who?

 

“Astrals,” Cor mumbles, rubbing his face.  His brow is pinched. He looks… displeased.  “Kid, did someone say I fought a god?”

 

 _Affirmative_ , N H-01987 0006-0204 signs, hesitant.

 

“Yeah, okay,” Cor says.  He breathes out, hard, and then pulls his hand away from his face.  He looks- tired. Resigned.

 

“Sit down,” he says.  “This’ll take a while.”

 

\---

 

Cor talks.  N H-01987 0006-0204 learns:

 

Gilgamesh is a god by technicality.  He is not, however, an _Astral_ , which are the six gods in the book.  The key difference seems to be that Gilgamesh used to be mortal, and whatever the Astrals are, they were not born on Eos and have never been human.

 

Gilgamesh used to be the Shield to the first King of Light, the forefather of the royal bloodline.  There is a lot in that sentence that N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand, but Cor continues before he can ask.

 

The Shield is a bodyguard.  He guards the King, who is the leader of the nation- the high commander- the most important person.  It is the Shield’s duty to protect the King with all means at his disposal.

 

Now, centuries after the death of the First King, Gilgamesh remains.  He tests anyone who wishes to fight him. If they lose, they die.

 

Cor is… kind of an exception.

 

“People call me the only man whose fought Gilgamesh and lived,” Cor says.  “Aranea says that she’s okay with that- she _laughs_ about it, Six- because she’s not a man and she thinks she doesn’t count as human.

 

“It’s stupid,” Cor says, as N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to keep up with how that is relevant.  “I wasn’t alone in that fight. Aranea helped me.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 stares.  Aranea did _what?_

 

Aranea has fought a god.  Aranea has fought a _god_.

 

He must look shocked, because Cor’s mouth is softening into a small smile.

 

“Do you want to hear about it?”

 

 _Affirmative_.

 

\---

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 listens.  Cor speaks:

 

The field is filled with bodies of his soldiers.  He is alone, the small, silverhaired child at the bottom of the mountain, safe and out of reach.  He has failed in his duty to keep his squad alive, but he’ll be damned if he fails to keep the child out of danger.

 

He is so full of anger and fear that is cripples his reason, and he sees, tall, terrifying, silver and red, Gilgamesh regarding him with eyes of fire.

 

He fights.

 

He cannot win.  Gilgamesh is faster, stronger, calmer than he is.  He is ruthless and cold. He is efficient. Cor, blinded, is none of these things.

 

The child is.

 

“She was just skin and bones,” Cor says.  “And Gilgamesh had just cracked my ribcage like breaking an egg- I was on the ground when she came flying outta nowhere.  Hit the bastard right in the damn face.”

 

The child, tiny, silent, scarred, her hair just a faint buzz of silver, throws herself upward, over Cor’s fallen body, and attacks a god.  She has surprise, and she is brutal and ruthless. She is not cold, but she is desperate, and she has always fought like a cornered animal.

 

Cor is hit with hysterical disbelief, and then terror, because- “She was just a kid,” Cor says, for the fifth time, “Just a tiny slip of a thing with no fear.”

 

He gets to his feet, desperate, while Gilgamesh is distracted.  Strikes.

 

It is meant to be a deadly blow.  Gilgamesh dodges, not quite fast enough, and his arm flies off in a shower of metal and blood.

 

Cor remembers the flash of the armored arm, the instant sick triumph, and then disbelief as Gilgamesh remained standing.  Remembers the girl trying to drive her fist through his eye, heedless of fire or heat, and Gilgamesh brushing her off.  Remembers her hitting the ground beside him, the audible crack and scream. Remembers Gilgamesh touching the stump, gentle, with gunmetal fingers, flame-eyes wide and strange.

 

Remembers standing there, his sword dripping liquid fire- god’s blood- as Gilgamesh looks at him, interested.

 

The rest of the fight is a blur.  The girl is there, bright and defiant, as Cor tries to keep her alive in the face of a god.  It ends with Cor on the ground, bleeding out, unable to move, and so tired, ready to die, while the girl is pinned through to the ground by a sword through her belly and she is _still_ screaming in rage, clawing up at the sword like she would pry her body up its length if she could, not ready to die yet.

 

Gilgamesh blesses them.  Their mortal wounds are healed.  He takes Cor’s sword, dripping god’s blood, and warps them away in a shower of red sparks.

 

They land in the empty campsite at the base of the ruins, the tents of his dead soldiers still pitched and untouched.  They are both still exhausted, still bleeding sluggishly from wounds not deemed important enough to be healed. The last thing Cor remembers is crawling over to the child, this stupid, brilliant child, as she lays motionless on the rocky ground, scowling at the sky, and feeling desperately for a pulse.

 

“She was alive,” Cor says.  “Just scared me for a minute there.  Looked over at me like I was all kinds of crazy when I did it, but she let me do it.  She hardly let anyone touch her before that.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 feels like he can barely breathe, he is so full of warmth and awe and something else.  Aranea is so- brilliant, so clever and fast and burningly fierce, even more than N H-01987 0006-0204 had known.  She fought a god. She bought Cor enough time to maim a god, armed with only her fists and teeth, and was ready to drive her fist through an eye full of fire.

 

She’s so clever.  She’s so good. N H-01987 0006-0204 realizes he is beaming, his chest bubbling and frothing over with something, like he is filled and overflowing with warmth.

 

Cor is smiling too, something small, like a crack in the hardness of his face.  Looking at N H-01987 0006-0204 with- something soft.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what that means.  But- Cor is smiling, a small thing, and the image of Aranea remains large and silver at the forefront of his brain.  Aranea grinning like a jackal. Aranea flipping twenty feet into the air. Aranea, lightning and silver, starlight and steel, more human than MT.  She would fight a god. She wouldn’t even hesitate.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 beams at Cor.  Not even for any good reason. Just because.

 

“Yeah,” Cor says, softly.  “Me too, kid.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know what that means.  But- then he thinks he might. He is full of warmth, and maybe- maybe Cor is too.

 

After another second, he thinks that can’t be correct.  Cor’s face is always hard. Even now, while N H-01987 0006-0204 is brimming with light, Cor has only softened a little bit.  He looks too stoney for warmth in his chest.

 

But- maybe he is.  Maybe Cor has warmth in him too, somehow.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s face hurts from smiling.  He touches it, presses against tense muscles, but can’t stop expression that stretches across his face and doesn’t really want to.  It feels like the light finding a way out.

 

It feels good.

 

But then Cor’s face is hardening again, his forehead furrowing.  N H-01987 0006-0204 feels his own face start to fall.

 

“Why did you want to know about Gilgamesh?”

 

Because- gods.  Because Ardyn dislikes gods, and he needs to know why.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks, struggles for an answer. Points at the bracelet.   _Ardyn_.

 

Cor’s eyebrows raise.  They don’t move very much, a tiny tick upward, but the expression is there: Cor is surprised, or doubtful.

 

“Him?” he says, and N H-01987 0006-0204 signs affirmative.  “Why would…”

 

Cor trails off, frowning.  And then he says, “He doesn’t have access to the Crystal.”

 

What?  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Tilts his head. He can feel his eyebrows drawing together, pinching in confusion, because he has no idea what that means.

 

“He’s the King’s distant cousin- fuck I don’t even know how far.  Some time ago one of the King’s had some bastard children, and he’s one of their descendants?”

 

What?

 

Cor stares at him for a second, then blinks, some expression N H-01987 0006-0204 can’t identify flickering across his face, before smoothing over into blankness.

 

“Sorry,” he says.  “I forgot. Do you know what the Crystal is?”

 

No?  Hesitantly, N H-01987 0006-0204 signs _negative_.

 

“Okay.  Do you know the Prophecy?”

 

 _Negative_.

 

Cor’s mouth is pressed into a line, but he isn’t looking at N H-01987 0006-0204.  He’s looking over N H-01987 0006-0204’s head. Seems to be thinking.

 

“Okay,” he says, finally.  “The Prophecy is- a lot. For now, though, I want you to understand- there is a Crystal.  It’s a big rock in the Citade; it’s blessed by the Astrals- I think Bahamut specifically. It allows the King to use magic, like the Armiger- basically it lets him keep things and summon them at will, usually weapons.  Does this make sense?”

 

No.  How does a rock give someone the power to summon things at will?  What does summon at will entail- do the objects respond like summoned soldiers and move to the directed location?  What happens if they don’t have a means of locomotion?

 

What does this have to do with Ardyn?

 

The other questions are overwhelming, but- he needs to know how this relates to Ardyn.  He points to the bracelet again, quirking his head to the side questioningly.

 

Cor frowns.  And then his expression shifts to something like- almost like alarm.

 

“Goddamnit,” he says, very quietly.  And then, “Did- did Aranea give you the talk?”

 

The what?  He looks at Cor, bewildered.

 

 _“Goddamnit,”_ Cor says again.  And then he’s quiet for a minute.  He looks a little like he- expects an attack, almost.

 

“Okay,” he says, finally.  And then, “Gods- fuck, okay.  So- you know how there are- like- babies?  Young creatures?”

 

Oh.  He knows young creatures.  They are the smaller versions of their full size versions, and they eventually grow to be full size.   _Affirmative_.

 

“Alright.  Do you know where they come from?”

 

Oh.  Yes. He had watched eggs hatch with Aranea; young creatures come from eggs.  He does not know where eggs come from, and data collection has ruled out the possibility of them growing from plants or stone, so he believes they come from animals, somehow.

 

_Affirmative._

 

“Oh thank god,”  Cor says, so softly N H-01987 0006-0204 almost doesn’t hear it.  “Okay, so the Astrals blessed the King’s line- the King’s children.  Each King’s first kid inherits the ability to use magic. That kid, eventually, also inherits the throne- he or she becomes King.  Or Queen. The first child becomes the leader and replaces the old King, I mean.”

 

Okay… The King is the most important person, the highest rank.  He can use magic. The highest ranking person somehow creates a juvenile human.  That juvenile human can also use magic. Eventually the juvenile human becomes King, replacing the old King.  And then _they_ create a juvenile human.

 

He… thinks he understands?  He blinks at Cor.

 

“Right,” Cor mumbles, and then he says, “ _He-_ ” he points to the bracelet- “Is the descendant of royalty who never _became_ King.  So a King had two children; the first became King and the second didn’t.  The first child’s kids inherited the magic, but the second child’s kids didn’t, because the second child was never a King.

 

“I don’t know how many generations separated Lord Lucis Calum is from the royal line- he brought paperwork, the first time he visited the old King.  I think it’s something like four? So he is the child’s child’s child of a King’s second child.”

 

Oh.  The Kings always have magic, but only the first children become Kings, so only they inherit the magic.  

 

So Ardyn does not have magic.  He is not given power by the rock- the Crystal, which was blessed by Bahamut.  Which is why he doesn’t like Bahamut.

 

But that’s wrong.  Ardyn must have some kind of magic.  He can read N H-01987 0006-0204’s mind.  He can make objects appear in showers of red sparks-

 

_Gilgamesh warped Cor in a shower of red sparks._

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s heart lurches out of his chest.  No. No, no no- Ardyn is- is Ardyn a god? He can’t be.  He can’t.

 

He can’t be Gilgamesh; Aranea would have recognized him.  But she did recognize him, looked at him like he was something foul, and, and- and Ardyn had said something, hadn’t he?  

 

 _After everything I’ve done for you._  

 

Ardyn had said that.  Ardyn had smiled at Aranea and said that, and Aranea had still hated him,and, and, that _matches_ , because Gilgamesh had blessed them and spared them and healed their wounds but he had still driven a sword through Aranea’s gut and threatened Cor, of course, of course she would hate him-

 

“... panicking, kid,” Cor’s voice is staticky and odd and sounds very far away.  It sounds scared. “Can you breathe? I need…”

 

Ardyn can’t be Gilgamesh.  He can’t. Cor would have recognized him, wouldn’t he?  Wouldn’t he?

 

But Ardyn had said- said- about the statue of the gods in the temple, he had said that they were in human form.  So they could take other forms- was Ardyn Gilgamesh’s human form, and Gilgamesh Ardyn’s other form?

 

Tall, and metal, with eyes of fire.  Was that Ardyn? Could it be? Interested at the loss of his arm, like being maimed was something mildly intriguing, that sounds like Ardyn, so maybe- maybe…

 

But he… spared them.  That doesn’t sound like Ardyn.

 

Didn’t it?  Ardyn hadn’t killed him.  But he… he was threatening Aranea.  And Gilgamesh hadn’t made any deal, had just fought them both to a stand still and then let them live.  Because of something. Because they fought well.

 

Because they were interesting.

 

_You’re so pretty, so interesting broken._

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 isn’t breathing.  His chest is still and burning and his vision is spotting and too bright and won’t focus and Cor seems abnormally close, crouched down in front of him, face creased in worry and filling up N H-01987 0006-0204’s vision and his chest hurt and-

 

 _“Breathe!”_ Cor barks.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 sucks in a breath purely on instinct.  The tone was a command. He must breathe. He spits the air out and drags it back in, almost choking.

 

“Better,” Cor says.  His voice still sounds distant, despite the fact that he’s so close.  “Keep breathing like that, okay? You’re doing great.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 coughs, breathes.  He must obey Cor.

 

“That’s good, that’s really good, kid,” Cor’s voice is saying.  The world starts to feel a little more solid, and he realizes that Cor’s hands are on his shoulders, squeezing hard enough to pinch.  Cor’s voice still sounds scared. He’s saying N H-01987 0006-0204 is doing good but he’s saying it in a scared voice.

 

“Shit,” Cor says, softly, and then the hands on N H-01987 0006-0204’s shoulders are gone.  His shoulders feel cold and his breath hitches in his throat, but then Cor is back, a cup in his hands.  “Drink this.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 fumbles.  Manages to move his fingers. He feels disconnected, watching his body from a distance, and his hand accepts the plastic cup.  Lifts it to his mouth.

 

It’s water.  It helps, for some reason.  It is very cold and somehow makes his throat feel less tight.

 

“Let’s take a break,” Cor says.  “We can go- do something else. Let’s go outside, alright?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t understand.  Ardyn’s face, oily and smiling, the skull-and-feathers glittering in red sparks, is printed on the back of his eyelids.  

 

But suddenly Cor’s hands are under his arms, shockingly close, and he’s being lifted and he has to scramble to get his feet under him as Cor hauls him upright.  He’s stunned by the unexpected contact and for a minute he just stares at Cor, who doesn’t let go, just half-carries and half-directs him to the door.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204’s head is whirling.  Cor is- holding, like- like- like how Gladio does, but only halfway, and pushing him.  Half-holding, half-pushing him out the door. Even when he stumbles and finds his feet, Cor doesn’t fully let go, keeps a hand on N H-01987 0006-0204’s back like he’s scared N H-01987 0006-0204 will fall.

 

He doesn’t fall.  Cor’s hand is warm on his back, and they walk out into the cool night air.

 

\---

 

The Citadel is strange at night.  The halls are lit, but the outside is only has periodic lights, warm yellow-orange lights that shine on the pathways.

 

They pass guards sometimes, but they only give him and Cor a curious glance before continuing on their way.

 

Cor directs him towards the area with plants- the gardens.  The winding path through the plantlife is quieter, cooler and darker than the hallways.  The air is cool and pleasant in his lungs, like the flower-smell of Tenebrae.

 

“Here,” Cor says, brushing off a bench.  “Sit.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hurries to obey.  His body still feels strange and distant, and he probably sits down a little too hard, but Cor doesn’t say anything, just sits next to him.

 

They’re quiet for a while.  The air is cool. The plants are blue-black in the shadows.  There are lights in the path, small and unobtrusive, so everything is lit from below with soft, yellow light, like the ground and plants are glowing from the inside, carrying lights in their chests.

 

There are no stars above.  It is inky black and solid, and glows near the horizon.

 

The breath starts to come a little easier in N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest.  It stops feeling like a struggle.

 

“Look,” Cor starts, and then stops.  

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 doesn’t know where he’s supposed to look.  For a moment the yawning fear threatens to swallow him again, but it seems thick and sticky and slow, hard to work up into malfunction.  And it doesn’t matter, because Cor starts talking again.

 

“Look,” he repeats.  “I shoulda had this talk with Aranea years ago.  I fucked up there. But I’m gonna try and do better with you, okay?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Doesn’t understand.

 

“The thing about- kids,” Cor says, and then stops.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 waits.  The world is dark and cool and slow, and he can’t bring himself to tilt his head at Cor, to do anything but wait.

 

“The thing about them,” Cor says, “Is that you don’t have to- belong to whoever had you.  Your family can be- fuck, do you know family?”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 does not know what _family_ means.  But he’s too slow to ask, his limbs moving through mud, his brain thick and sticky and slow.

 

“It means- the people who take care of you,” Cor tells him anyway.  “The people you carry- here.”

 

Cor taps his own chest.  N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Slow. Remembers the warmth when he thinks of Aranea, lighting him up from the inside out, spiraling out from where his heart moves against his ribcage.

 

“And your family is- people think it’s supposed to be the people who had you.  Gave birth to you, I mean. But it doesn’t have to be. It can be whoever you want.”

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks.  Doesn’t understand.

 

“So the facility,” Cor says, “Even if they made you and all your groupmates- they aren’t your family.  No one who brands kids- no one- look, they’re not your family, okay? No matter what anyone says. Your family are the people who love you, and take care of you.  And you’ll _have_ that, I promise.”

 

 _I’ll help,_ says the memory of Aranea’s voice.

 

In the slow, dark night, N H-01987 0006-0204 presses his eyes shut.  Thinks of Ardyn, smiling, his hands glittering with red sparks. Thinks of Cor, frowning and holding his shoulders.  Thinks of the image of Aranea, screaming, defiant, hurtling upward to punch a god in the face.

 

He doesn’t understand family.  But- but- Aranea took care of him.  Aranea kept him safe,

 

He crushes his eyes tighter together and thinks of her.

 

\---

 

He takes a flower back his room that night.  Cor had plucked one, said it was okay, as long as he didn’t take too many.  And N H-01987 0006-0204 had hesitated, looking at the soft plants, their colors muted in the dark.  Then he remembers the letter Noct took out of Umbra’s pouch, the flat, dried flower beside it.

 

He takes one that looks bright and good.  It is very large, made up of many, many small petals, layered so it looks like a bush.  He hopes it’s enough.

 

Pryna is still there when he gets back to his room.  She sniffs the flower, curious, as he holds it out for her to inspect.  Sneezes twice.

 

He tucks the flower into her pouch.  Even with how big the flower is, it still looks dark and empty with no paper.

 

He can’t write.  He can’t. This is the best he has.

 

Pryna seems to understand, because when he ties the pouch closed she gets to her feet.  Nudges at the door.

 

He lets her out, and she trots away.

 

He watches the empty hallway for a long time.  Feels cold and strange.

 

\---

 

He dreams:

 

There are several small creatures, squirming around.  Their eyes are squeezed shut, and their bodies seem uncoordinated, limbs awkward and stiff.  They are covered in something soft and yellow-brown, a tan, cloudy material that is translucent around their outside edges.  They have a stiff ridge of longer hair down their spine. They are covered in spots, from rounded ears to tiny tail to the ends of their soft, clumsy limbs.

 

They are making soft sounds, like something crying.  A whining, distressed sound. Their mouths are very pink.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 hesitates in the cave entrance.  They are so small, tucked away into a corner made soft by dirt.  They are squirming and making distressed sounds, and N H-01987 0006-0204’s chest hurts for some reason.

 

They are distressed.  He wants to help them.

 

He creeps closer.  Their crying gets louder and more frantic.  He doesn’t know what the problem is, even as he tries to discern it.

 

There’s a snarl, and a deep sound like an engine starting, but guttural.

 

 _“KID!”_ Aranea screams.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 whirls, shocked at how terrified Aranea sounds, and then he’s being knocked backwards into the dirt, sprawling.

 

There’s a horrible roar and an answering scream, and N H-01987 0006-0204 scrambles to his feet, sees a whirl of silver and metal and something- something big and gold and spotted with shiny white teeth.  It has yellow eyes and narrow pupils and its mouth is locked around Aranea’s lance, claws slashing past her head, her hands white-knuckled on the lance.

 

Combat data sends his hand flying for a gun that isn’t there.  Then he’s bolting forward, data shifting to close-combat.

 

 _“No!”_ Aranea screams.  N H-01987 0006-0204 halts, stumbling, and Aranea roars, _“Get out!  Run!”_

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 obeys, darting around them as the creature forces Aranea to the ground, as she kicks hard up into its ribs and makes it yowl, something crackling and gleaming blinding white in its face.

 

He bolts.  Behind him, he hears a fleshy sound of something cutting through skin and muscle, followed immediately by an otherworldly screech that sounds more like the animal than Aranea.  Then a humming noise he feels in the air, like a buzz against his skin, and a horrible crack, the air suddenly alive with static electricity.

 

He runs for about half a mile before he stops, too sick to continue.  Looks back, hovering, doesn’t know if he should go back or not.

 

Then Aranea appears over the rise, jogging.  One hand still holds her lance, shaking from the strain, and the other arm dangles by her side, unresponsive.

 

“Robo-boy!” she bellows.  She sounds- furious. Something in N H-01987 0006-0204 freezes up and cowers.

 

“What was that?” she roars as she gets closer.  Her eyes are narrow and her whole face twisted up with rage.  The dangling arm is dripping red-black blood.

 

“I-” he says.  “I don’t. I-”

 

“C’mon,” Aranea snarls, doesn’t wait for him to finish.  “Keep walking, c’mon, robo-boy.”

 

He follows her obediently, obeying, following all procedures.  His heart is so loud and his eyes are watery and bright. He has made a mistake.  He has messed up and Aranea is furious, anger in every line of her.

 

“Those were _couerl_ kittens!” Aranea snarls.  “You can’t touch them! Their mom will kill you as soon as look at you, you stupid fuck!”

 

“I d-didn’t,” N H-01987 0006-0204 says, mouth slurring and stuttering the words.  “They w-were- I didn’t-”

 

“You didn’t _what?”_

 

“They were c-crying.”

 

“Of course they were!  They don’t _know_ you!” Aranea bellows.  Her lance arm is shaking hard and N H-01987 0006-0204 should help her but she’s so angry, she’s so, so angry, he can’t- he can’t.  “You can’t walk up to wild animals! Especially if they’re _small_ like that!   _Especially if they sound distressed!_ The only reason wild animals cry is because they’re babies or because they’re hurt, and the babies’ mom will kill you and _nothing is more dangerous than an injured animal._  Do you understand?  They don’t know you and they’re scared and they _will_ hurt you.  Do you understand?”

 

“I- I- I,” N H-01987 0006-0204 tries to say he _understands_ , because he has to, because Aranea is so mad and he wants her to not be mad.  “I understand-d.”

 

“I thought I’d _lost you,”_ Aranea says.

 

She is angry.  She is so angry.  N H-01987 0006-0204’s eyes are wet and leaking and his nose is leaking and his voice is making strange sounds.  But then she’s slumping forward, and N H-01987 0006-0204 is terrified that’s she’s going to faint.

 

“Fuck,” she says, shakily, and N H-01987 0006-0204 listens, stupefied.  She sounds raw and small and scared.

 

Aranea never sounds like that.  Aranea’s never scared.

 

“I thought I _lost_ you,” Aranea repeats.  She doesn’t sound angry anymore.  Just- something else. Something horrible and and worse, so much worse than anger, something like sorrow and fear together.

 

“I-I-” N H-01987 0006-0204 says.  “M’sorry-y.”

 

Aranea drops her lance.  Shoves her hand up against her face.  Her other arm twitches and shakes.

 

“M’sorry,” N H-01987 0006-0204 says again, desperate.  “Please, I’m- I didn’t-”

 

Then Aranea is pulling him towards her, tucking him under her arm.  Crushing him close.

 

His nose is in her collarbone.  She’s shaking. For a minute N H-01987 0006-0204 thinks that he’s malfunctioned so badly that she’s going to kill, going to strangle him until he has no air left.

 

But she doesn’t.  She holds him close to her chest, close enough that he can hear her heartbeat.

 

Later, they will make camp and he will help her patch up her injured arm.  Later, she will tell him that couerls produce electricity from their whiskers, a rudimentary defense system against opponents.  Later, she say that she’s sorry, for not explaining it sooner, before it became a problem, for yelling when she was scared.

 

That will come later.  Now she holds him, and it is strange and new, and while she shakes, N H-01987 0006-0204 shakes, and he realizes, slowly, horribly, that Aranea is not immune to fear.  That she can get scared too.

 

\---

 

The next day, by midmorning, there comes a scratching at the door.

 

N H-01987 0006-0204 blinks, the wire dress in his hands.  Gets up. Opens the door. Pryna trots in and licks his ankle.

 

He blinks at her, wonders if she delivered the flower.  Checks the pouch. Pulls out a letter, and something much thicker and heavier.  A book.

 

He blinks, confused.

 

The book is titled: _Old Tenebraen Flower Language_.  He flips it open.  It appears to be a list of plants coupled with unrelated concepts, and has many, many pages of glossy pictures.

 

He doesn’t understand.  He unfolds the paper.

 

It reads:

 

_Dear friend,_

 

_I’m sorry for misunderstanding.  I believe I understand now; Noct has told me about a friend that does not speak or write.  Pryna informs me that she ran into Umbra, so I can only assume she was in the Citadel, where Noct’s quiet friend is also staying._

 

_I know it is quite a leap.  I hope it is you, or the rest of this letter will be rather foolish._

 

_Noct has described working out a sort of rudimentary language between the two of you that seems to rely on a lot of charades, so I assume you are open to some form of communication besides writing.  The book enclosed is a basic summary of a very old, rather traditional language between noble classes; the art of arranging flowers to spell a secret message. The chrysanthemum you sent me, for example, stands for friendship.  I understand it might not have been what you meant, but it is a sentiment I hope for just the same._

 

_I assume most, if not all of the flowers can probably be found in the Citadel gardens.  It is a traditional language for nobility, and the gardeners would find it a point of honor to keep all the necessary plants well and thriving, even if the language has long since fallen out of fashion._

 

_I understand entirely if you do not wish to respond!  I do not wish to force an unwanted pen pal on you. But if it’s no trouble, why don’t you send me an arrangement that answers whether you’d like to continue speaking with me or not?_

 

_Either way, I hope the best for you and that you are doing well._

 

_Warmest regards,_

_Luna_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can u guys tell luna's lonely


End file.
